The end of an at-best "all right" trip had come to an end. The assignment from the editors of Pacific Gold was to review on the carnage, change, and color of the locals of Fort Myers 3 months after the hurricane. The title of the piece was already chosen: "The Best of What's Left." On day 1 of the visit, I drove about an hour south, all the better to drink "Passion Fruit Splash" with "some" rum while sitting in a hot tub. He then said to me "Hey, did you see all those people stuck on Southwest flights?" I hadn't, but I did see the line at LAX the day before, and that might have been the first indication of a massive fuck-up. And no matter where I went in the early parts of my research, this issue was all the talk.
Half of the visit was just downright shit weather, and it made some of the locals surly. Almost surly as I was considering it was 80 in Dealville and had I not been eating grouper and Key Lime Pie at a rapid rate, I'd have been...well, worse?
On return day, the editor texted to check in. I said that we're almost back: that I wished the non-stop flight hadn't been cancelled, but the notes are there, the story will be sent on Thursday, and hey how about that Sun Bowl? The editor, again, brought up Southwest's stranded folk. I could only see cancellations on the board, but that must be in another terminal. (BTW, Denver's airport is just one big-ass hallway. Dogshit)
And then...I waited. And then it started snowing. Then I got on a plane. And then I waited and waited some more. I waited so long, I was told the unfortunate news: sorry, you're staying here. It's Colorado, it's a blizzard outside, have fun!
The only other time such an event has happened to me was, looking back, life-altering. In January of 1999, my futile attempts to return to Boston covered nearly 48 hours, Northwest Airlines, flying over (but not landing at) airports, a shared cab ride with 4 other grown men I'd never met in my life, and a handful of hours of sleep at a motel in Ann Arbor. The temperature was -1 when we arrived. Nearly 24 hours later (after being on 4 cancelled flights), I flew eastward. Those of us on that flight who survived the ordeal were literally hugging and dancing in the aisles. The flight attendant asked why we were so happy. Before I could answer, a middle-aged man said, "because we're never flying this airline again!" I'm proud to say I never did. And on that flight, I looked out the window the entire time on a clear, cold night. In the distance, I saw small towns every few minutes. I made a promise: next year will be the last winter. During that time, we will move to Dealville (or somewhere) where there will be nothing like what forced this experience.
This very play started to screen in my subconscious as I was in the passenger seat of a compact car, being driven in this hell storm, snow so thick there were no lanes, just vague remembrances of rules and laws. I'd never been to Aurora, Colorado before. Now I have. It took a little over an hour to make this trip, the entire time my adrenaline flowing because there are cars on the side of the road, abandoned. I saw one car slowly push another up a hill. It's a tough feeling, having to accept a fate you so doggedly work to avoid.
Now, you see, this is the kind of shit that is likely all too common to many people the world over. But I have strived and strived to avoid it, and in reality, I had nothing to do except "deal with it" until the next day. But there was no way I could sleep. I laid at first, still shivering, extra towels on top of the blankets. The adrenaline wouldn't let go. I was on full go-zone gonzo while I could look over and see The Big Scoop herself, someone who, in a pinch, could fall asleep anywhere.
As I returned to the airport the next day to wait some more, I spoke with some fast friends from the last flight. An active senior couple who lived in town up and slept on the floor of the airport, forgoing any free sleepin' "That turned out to be a bad idea" he said. "I didn't think they'd close everything, but they did. Only the bathrooms were open. We couldn't even get water." I asked if, in fact, he did sleep. "Probably not."
Upon landing in Dealville, everything else came easy. (Except the drive back, but I've never been happier to sit in traffic) Not that I needed the reminder, but having endured what it was, it was another reminder of why this is home. Despite (gestures) it all out here, I don't think I'd have it any other way.
Of the at-most 10 regular readers of this blog, I'd guess a few might remember the first blog in the chain was, believe it or not, an NBA blog. I wasn't on that at the start, but it goes to say something that it's been over a decade since anyone's graced the pages with insights, thoughts, or jokes. It would seem we've moved on from the NBA for one reason or another. At BEST I haven't watched in over a decade. No specific reason: interest just faded and college football amped up even more taking that space in my brain.
So, when The Artest Formerly Known as Smiley asked if she should enter a raffle at work for Clippers tickets for a Saturday night game against San Antonio, I demurred. I guess it was a vague, half-hearted agreement to the idea.
Her: Wouldn't that be fun?
Me: I guess?
Her: It's in a suite! It comes with free VIP parking, too.
Me, (thinking of the pain in the ass it is to get there with any kind of traffic): That's good.
Her: The Big Scoop is starting basketball, I thought it would be good to take her there and go over stuff, get her excited about the game. You could point out some fundamentals.
Me: Thank you of thinking of me.
Well, the Clippers in November were not a hot topic, and to no surprise, we received 2 tickets. I even said that she should take the Scoop so they could bond, but the game was of even less interest to her.
And, as predicted, Dad really had to watch his language in the car as it took 50 minutes to go 13 miles and we were almost run off the Harbor Freeway. But eventually we found the VIP parking. Pretty slick for the usual going rate - easier (and closer) than the same at Dodger Stadium. Upon arrival, the walkways and concessions were merely upscale-looking versions of those in the upper deck serving the same ol slop. I was impressed by the view, however.
It was at that moment that I wished these seats were for something I really cared about. I couldn't get upset because it was a raffle - it's not like I stole 'em from someone. People slowly filed in, and the "entertainment" was a constant: someone on the mic was trying his damndest to hype everyone to what is about to occur: the Clippers are about to play!
A man in what looked like a toucan costume began to hit a giant bass drum and it went faster and faster, leading up to the lights dimming and the hype video began for all. Briefly, you see owner Steve Balmer in a construction hat in his "Forum II" in Inglewood. And while we await that completion to the arena scene of southern California, I couldn't help but think back to when I cared about the Clips. Then, as now, they were the underdog. Then they were controlled by one of the worst owners in the history of sports. Now, even though they've been better than the Lakers for the last couple of years (I think?) it's still rough rowing. At least Steve gives a shit and wants the team to grow. That made me happy. For them.
My attempts to engage in the game went for naught while we shoveled in overpriced garbage in the lounge. Each basketball topic I brought up was met with 1-word answers and then something I didn't ask about: the new Pokemon video game, over-worn anecdotes, and other items at the concession stand. (Did you know that hot chocolate is cheaper than a bottle of water?)
Come gametime, I (and the game) held her interest until the TV time out of the 1st quarter. My eyes drifted to the TV in the suite showing the Game of Games, with USC and UCLA football going back and forth. Even AT the basketball game, the other raffle winners and I were watching Dealville's big game in Pasadena. I was briefly concerned if the Scoop was bored, but then remembered she brought a book. There she sat in a lounge chair, reading, unaware of the noise around her.
I would cheer for dunks, I would say aloud how no one takes mid-range jump shots anymore, I would bemoan the audio onslaught at every waking second, but she wasn't concerned. She wasn't paying attention, and the fact that she was calm and doing her thing enforced that paying any kind of money to go to a game would be a true waste.
We left early not to beat traffic: that had subsided by that point. We left because there was no reason to stay. In the car, we didn't talk about the game, we talked about Thanksgiving. She talked about her book. Near home, I reminded her of topics she should bring up once inside for the press conference of questions.
A bit over a month ago we went to a football game for what (we hope) will be her high school. I figured it'd be more of a hang out than anything, and it was, but when asked how she liked the game and she replied, "it was delicious!" she wasn't talking about the good defensive play. I just know that food prepared by band parents is a hell of a lot cheaper than at Staples Center (I'm not going to stop calling it that). And if that's the measuring stick of sporting events, let's keep it local. I applaud Steve and his attempts to grow the Clippers. For me, I fear the ship has sailed.
It's been a noise battle to get sports gambling here in Dealville. You'd think this would be a minor point to the high majority of the voting public, but the relentless advertising for both propositions proved otherwise. The LA Times had a snotty "endorsement" of voting No to both the prop of sports gambling at tribal casinos only and the digital sports gambling prop as well. Why did they say you should vote no? Heresy in a negative form. It was heresy in a positive form when they endorsed legal marijuana years ago. "We think this should be given a try." I found out that, when you bring receipts to the LA Times "letters to the editor" they ignore you - as they did when I called them out for the rosy tributes for the late Tom LaBonge.
We're not even half-way finished counting, and the sign is as loud and clear as pit boss walking over to the sleeping degenerate in the book. "All right, pal. Let's go." So, now what?
On the night of Election Day, the Big Scoop and I looked over various sports gambling sites. No, it wasn't what I wanted. The ease wouldn't be there. I also didn't feel happy. It was nagging at me. I'm trying to pretend to be totally happy. And I guess I am...a little, but what I did today I could have done long, long ago. This was pure spite.
And, having done this for decades, I can tell you that sports gambling out of spite is a different animal, one not nearly as fun as the "regular way" where it's all hitting and you're just looking for action. Here, there is action, but not all of it. It's just what I'm allowed to have and nothing more. So, I'll just keep mashing the giant button labeled "GAMBLE" while thinking about how there was a time when I could do true nutty parlays for $1 a pop. Ain't nothing if I lost. If I turned $1 into $5, or $10? Shit, I was a happy man.
If Potsy were still alive, why do I think that he'd have already moved (under the cover of night) to another state...one where it's all easy and free? People say, "if you like sports gambling so much, why don't you move to Las Vegas?" Because I can't have it here? And why not?! Why can't I give my "guaranteed winners" back to the state? Because this would make "addicts" out of thin air?
A person maybe 15 to 20 miles from me just won a lottery prize of $2 Billion. Guess they were an addict for having gambled, right? Now they're a billionaire. "Me and Kathy both bought tickets. The lotto is really high!"
The hypocrisy will never EVER leave the general public's view of sports gambling. And for now, once again, those of us in Dealville will have to go back to the drawing board, or Nevada, or "back-alley guys" or whatever stupid shit was said in the past few months. I look to the sky; I say it aloud to no one and everyone: ALL I WANTED WAS THE ACTION!
What better a month to continue the countdown than October?! It was times like these that the Horror section at video stores would start to get a bit thin. As such, sometimes you'd end up with your 6th choice. Might one of the films below been such a choice?
#45 - Beyond Dream's Door (1989)
Back of the VHS description: BEYOND DREAM'S DOOR...it's where dreams become reality and your worst nightmares come true. Suspense, action, adventure, and terrifically entertaining story combine to make this tale of terror an unforgettable experience.
Ben Dobbs, an All-American college student, has been repressing his strange and terrifying dreams since childhood. Suddenly, he loses control - his dreams turn into living nightmares where he must find a seductive but deadly dream girl in a house inhabited by the living dead.
In a tense battle of wits, strength and determination, Ben must make the toughest and perhaps last decision of his life.
I felt mixed about this one. When it comes to the movement of the plot, and the action therein, it has all the subtlety of a frying pan to the face. The continued, unnecessary close-ups had more than a touch of film school, and I was correct (Ohio St). The acting is monotone, at best.
And yet...
At least they're trying something interesting here. How long do your dreams stay with you? I remember dreams I had when I was a kid - enough to wake me up as a "bad dream" and none of them are remotely resembling a horror movie. (Mostly resembling a YouTube video of unsettling local TV footage from 1982) I thought about how the woman formerly known as Smiley has vastly different dreams than I yet we're right next to each other. How The Big Scoop usually has dreams of what's interesting her at the moment. About how, after reflection, I remember some daydreams from years back!
The film came and went with me but the concept, the idea, has stayed with me much longer. I usually only stump for remakes if they're really "do-overs" to fix issues beyond their control from the original (some of which is budget in nature) and Beyond Dream's Door certainly deserves such a treatment. The tone can remain the same, even nearly all the plot, but up the game with actual actors and tighter editing, and it would be sensational.
#44 - Blood Lake (1987)
Back of the VHS description: A quick dip into the lake turns into a blood bath of horror.
Six teenagers are looking forward to a weekend of partying, sex, and all around fun. But before the party is even started, one couple disappears, only to be found later brutally murdered. A blood thirsty killer is stalking their summer playground.
One by one bodies begin to turn up. On the beach, in the boat, the vacationers become prey to the venomous, vengeance-seeking maniac. There's only one person left to either kill the killer or be killed. There's no where to hide. Who will come out alive?
Editor's note: Hey, A+ on grammar
Barryfilm presents! "Boss! You gotta look at the files!" And it's actually SHOT ON VIDEO!
We're not 30 seconds into the movie proper, and I'm already laughing. A man whose tube socks are pushed all the way down is just up and stabbed. But even the threat of being stabbed doesn't seem like a big deal...until it is, of course.
You can believe that 6 people can fit into a Trans Am, can't you? Lead, played by the film's writer Doug Barry, might be Marc Summers' twin:
Tony, maybe 14/15, the horniest guy you know: Hey Mike, you gonna be a butthole this weekend or are you gonna let me drink?
Mike: A butthole?! I don't care if you drink. Don't go crazy on us.
This shot above lasts roughly 2 minutes with dialogue all said with their backs to the camera. Gold.
The plot is straight-forward, but as it moves along, the way it evolves makes no sense. Mike hears noises and runs outside to investigate. He yells "oh shit!" and runs around to the shed, and comes back in. False alarm. Was it? If so, why were you so panicked? It doesn't matter, because we can cut to a water-skiing montage to rock & roll! Nice blend of Molly Hatchet and Quarterflash. Plus, Becky in her swimsuit: what a babe. And then...ANOTHER water-skiing montage!
After another time-killing scene playing "Quarters" with homophobic improv galore (and Mike the clear King of this game), it takes more than HALF the movie to be completed before you get any genuine suspense (a drowning, I think? Who needs lights when the moon exists). Perhaps that's why this film is rated so poorly: as a horror film, it's below average. But as a cultural curio of its time and place (Oklahoma, late 80's) it is sensational. It's as if, for 90 minutes, you've found a time machine you can't control, but the visit is worth it.
Closing Credit: Dry Lake Special Effect by An Act of God
#43 - Bloody Moon (1981, 1983 in the US)
Back of the VHS description: Two young American girls living in Europe, are attending a school where they are learning Spanish. Unknown to the girls, in the school, a murder was committed two years ago; in this institution. Miguel, who was accused of the murder, returns to this town, when soon after one of the girls in the school is murdered.
Panic sets in at the school, as the crimes continue, as the police search for the murderer.
Who is the killer???
(Editor's note - the grammar on these boxes is unreal. Why does it always seem as though these descriptions are written by people who've never seen the movie? Is it because that's true?!)
Unlike Violent Shit, this foreign film is more cinematic than nearly anything else on this list. It has great musical stings, whether for suspense (seemingly borrowed from the TV series Kung Fu) or just exposition. This also being a foreign film, means the literal translations sound like the voice actors from language cassettes. (And, wouldn't you know it, there are scenes of the girls listening to just that) Just because one is willing to look past it doesn't mean the viewing experience is any easier.
All that said, my favorite parts were things like this random tennis scene, where a woman acts as a "judge" while 2 other women (who have never played tennis before, it appears) play against a guy.
(Look at that soft lens, the natural light, the "judge")
The California sound plays (the very sting that plays throughout the whole damn movie) as that scene is then, randomly and immediately over; the player is now walking toward topless sunbathers by the pool. He gets pushed in, of course, but so does one of the topless girls, it appears, by accident. Then that scene, too, is randomly and immediately over; we're now on to fully clothed girls catching up by the pool, working on the Spanish lessons.
There are 2 ways to fill in time between kills in these kinds of movies. You can do a waterskiing montage in Oklahoma, or you can shoot something that looks like a foreign perfume commercial at a resort.
Angela then arrives. She'll be staying in bungalow 13.
(Oh, you 1980 Spanish & German babe. Olivia Pascal, you are a bewitching, beguiling gal. It is up to me to save you from the weirdo with the facial skin rash and hair worse than my own.)
That weirdo is one of many men trying to sneak into your place while you do such tasks as unpack and inspect each piece of clothing as if you're seeing it for the first time.
Life won't get any easier for Angela. She'll surely witness a murder, even hearing the confession on one of those language cassettes. A giant "boulder" might almost crush you out of nowhere. You'll "murder" a mannequin. It takes you almost becoming the final victim to then get the fuck out. And there it ends. Yes, I'm leaving out a lot of weird bits here, and I'm in no rush to see this again, but it wasn't a total waste of time.
#42 - The Children (1980, in theaters)
10+ years ago, as the 2nd of a double feature at the New Beverly Cinema, I saw this gem for the first time. Oh, did I enjoy this film. Entertainment intentional and otherwise. Let's just go back in time over 40 years ago for a TV commercial, one more time, because I honestly and truly miss commercials like this one:
Folks, when that bus goes through the radioactive smoke, it's all over. See this movie. Here's another: Honestly, give this a shot. You will be entertained. If these commercials can't sell you on your time, know that Terror Trap refers to this as a "tacky exploitation film." You'll need to be in the mood to see a tacky exploitation film, but when you are, this should be at the top of your list. I could go on and on, but I'm doing that already!
#41 - Anthropophagus: The Grim Reaper (1980)
Back of the VHS description: A deserted beach. A bloodcurdling scream. A decapitated head. So ends another tourist's holiday. So begins another Anthropophagus The Beast as it gallops through shock after bloody shock. Probably one of the most frightening films you will ever see, it will leave you wondering if deep inside us all, there may lurk the cannibal. Watch it, if you dare!
Gotta say, the setup about sent me to the off button, but it was a half-hour in until we very s l o w l y saw some sort of plot movement and payoff. Nice instrumental music from the "In Search Of..." files. And, after a stabbing, the rest of the island visitors consoling the killer is a unique turn of events for these kinds of films. I don't know - maybe I'm watching too many of these (as if that's a problem). But I was left wondering if Bleeding Skull put some titles in here to give the Comic Book Guy vibe of "yeah, but have you seen THIS?!" Well, I've seen this, and I'm ready for the next title.
Still, though, Halloween is right around the corner. Anyone up for water skiing? If you come along, I'll get you a beer if you won't be a butthole.
When you're in search for video gold, analog in type, you find yourself cleaning up constantly. My desk always looks the way it does because the shipments just keep coming. Because someone reminds me of something and I have to find it - and when I do, "putting it away" becomes a labored affair. Because someone asks and research has to be done.
One such issue was the request from Trip Darvez, who (once upon a time) wrote for the L.A. Reader. That paper hasn't been around for decades, as you know. Speaking of, it was 2 decades ago that I first met Trip (at a pool party) and he said that he had a copy - on Beta! - of "Video Reader" a special from KCOP in 1983. I think the fact that I had heard of it connected us, though anyone who really knows me knows that I've heard of a lot of random old TV, commercials, night clubs, so on. Can't say it's all the way useful in my daily life but it's actually helped me every now and then with employment, so I continue to pile it on in the same manner of my desk.
Anyway, without getting too into the mundane, Trip didn't make it in time for our meet-up at the last living Du-Par's restaurant...one nowhere near me, because he said (almost unintelligibly) there was something wrong with his Plymouth. I was pleasantly surprised by the food, annoyed by the pay-for-parking, even more annoyed about the drive at a time when purchasing gasoline is to be part of a vast conspiracy, but so goes another day.
It wasn't until I decompressed that I realized there was a connection here: the last of an LA chain, the last Plymouth that wasn't a collector, the last writer from that lane of prose that was grinding out LA Life at a time when it was at its nuttiest. The combination of all 3 items gave me an appreciative smile at a time when I needed it. I think Trip might have noticed it too, but I assure you he didn't connect the dots in the same fashion.
Days later I received a box from Trip (mailed) containing a stack of video and audio cassettes, even some micro cassettes he used for interviews. There was a note enclosed, written on a wrinkled paper wine bag. "Do you think it's in here?" The tracks of Trip's mind were going off in all directions. He needed help, but not in the way you'd think.
So, I flashed back to those 2 decades ago, the days of the Crescent Heights Overdose, of the walk west on the Strip, the mental gates of steel in view. At that time, more was new than current (or "old" in that respect) and meeting Trip was one of many things at that time. I remember asking Donovan about how often he'd visit his store and he said he didn't know him. And then Trip's missives would be here and there, and time would march on, and I'd always think of how random life can be, how connections can be made with the flimsiness of pretenses, and what loyalty means.
So, after some prompting, it came together. Like being able to understand someone through a thick accent that baffles others. We hadn't talked about that show since...shit, was it when the blog started - 2005?! No, that can't be...but I think that's right. And yet, this is what he's asking.
To be fair, I haven't done anything but just look through the box. It still sits next to my desk. In sum the contents could be anything or nothing. I could contact Trip, then eventually get a hold of him (one way or another) and say "nope, looked through all the tapes, no Video Reader." Would that be enough? "Hey, you taped a bunch of Goodnight L.A. episodes!" Oh...but what else? he might say.
Hey - at least he's still around. Just like the tapes. The stories. Some of the locations. Trip is still out there and, it seems, so is more gold.
As I set up last month, there's only 1 way to find out how one would feel about the Trash Horror films of the 1980's, other than the fact that there are a LOT of them, and as I also found out, you could maybe thin this list by a LOT as well.
#50 - Violent Shit (1989)
Back of the VHS description: Experience a lesson in real bad taste. (The rest in German)
There's an old projectionist's saying, apathetic as it may be: "Well, it's exactly what it says on the can." In the scope of all movies, I guess it's violent. It, too, is shit. The opening features a child playing in the park with the titles "Starring K. The Butcher Shitter." Now, I have to be honest: I was wondering if this would be no different than those high school films Mike made, at least in spirit, with the difference that somehow this was distributed. It's hard not to draw parallels in many aspects - the killing of the mother early in the film to the, well, "reproductive system GONE" scene in "Larry LaRue's Much Ado About Systems." What the actors lack in skill and pretty much interest, they do have the German going, which makes everything sound angry. But again, I kept going back to Larry LaRue's rough day and all it showed was that editing, even on a VHS, is everything. If you're a beat too late, well...
I could go on and on, but I fear I'm already using up too much emotion, interest, and time on this one.
#49 - The Video Dead (1987)
Back of the VHS description: You're all alone, and an old horror film is showing on late night T.V. - a group of zombies is prowling through a misty wood. Suddenly, one of the zombies turns towards you and starts beating on the T.V. screen. As the set explodes outwards and a rotting hand reaches for your throat, you realise (sic) it's too late to hit the "pause" button...You're a victim of THE VIDEO DEAD.
When Teenagers Jeff and Zoe find an old T.V. set in their new house, they're not to know that it's haunted; but when a horde of flesh-eating monsters escape through the screen to prey upon a quiet suburb, it's up to them to end the bloodshed by forcing the zombies back into their transistorized crypt. If horror is what you're looking for, then THE VIDEO DEAD are waiting for you!
First off, is it me, or does the back of the box give nearly EVERYTHING away? Did the producers feel a need to give a hard sell to this one? I can't imagine why. Right off the bat, before even acknowledging the Carpenter-inspired opening, in the back recesses of my mind, I thought I'd seen this movie before...but I must have been confusing it with TerrorVision. Completely night and day from Violent Shit...a movie with style, flair, and humor in spades. There might be more fade-outs in the first 20 minutes than all films combined in 1985. Spending money smartly: keep so much of the film to a cul-de-sac, you can put the rest toward practical effects. A housewife is placed upside down into a washing machine. The Video Dead goes to show how much fun a horror movie can be if those making it just commit 1000% to the idea, however nutty it might be, and actually try to make a good movie.
Line Readings of the Year Award goes to this scene toward the beginning:
Jeff: So, what about you? What are you up to?
Zoe, a "teen": Well, I start my first semester at the universitythefirstofnextmonth.
Jeff: You got in. Great. (Read just as its written) What's your major?
Zoe: Aerobics.
Jeff: (spits out a spoonful of canned chili) Aerobics?!
Zoe: Yeah! You know, aerobics?!
Jeff: You can't major in aerobics!
Zoe: WELL, it may not be higher education, but it's still a degree, Jeff. And I'm taking it very seriously.
Jeff: I'm almost afraid to ask what your minor is.
Zoe: Music videos.
Jeff: Seriously?!
Zoe: Yeah, seriously.
(Cut to shots of both of them shaking their heads, and yet another fade out.)
Don't miss this one!
#48 - The Nail Gun Massacre (1985)
Back of the VHS description: A beautiful young girl is brutally gang-raped by construction workers at a building site in a small Texas town. Suddenly, mutilated bodies begin turning up. Nailed up. Nailed to trees. Nailed to the pavement. Nailed to each other! The Nail Gun Maniac is deadly and no one knows who he'll hammer down next. It's a piercing, no-holes barred trip into industrial-strength horror!
Clever wordplay on the back of the box. But for an uncomfortable plotline that's been done before (and perhaps not just once) it seems to get in the way of the main crux of the film: shooting nails into people. It's not the worst-looking film (I bet they had no idea just how 80s it would look in throw-away shots) and the killer does seem imbibed with Schwarzenegger's ability to deliver one-liners intended (or otherwise) to laugh. Each of those, however, have to cover up with the awful acting. It's that point where bad acting makes the film worse, not better. I will admit I got a chuckle out of seeing a random dad nailed and then falling over a lit BBQ (then pushing it backwards, while "dead," so he doesn't fall over) and his daughter coming out to swim by saying "Dad, are the steaks burning?"
#47 - Nightbeast (1982)
Back of the VHS description: Few people witness the arrival of an alien craft in the dead of the night. The presence of the hostile extra-terrestrial is soon felt by a small American town where mutilated bodies are found. It soon becomes apparent that the creature hungers for flesh and blood and begins to wreak death and destruction to all that stands in its path.
A savage and horrific monster movie right through to the bloody end!
Note: This seems to have been released in theaters or drive-ins in the fall of 1982, a minor yet important point that we'll likely fall into now and again on this list.
Pre-dating Predator by a handful of years, where do I start with this one? I mean, right at the beginning, it's laser sounds with "Amazing Film Productions Presents." A no-star cast with one actor receiving an "And..." call-out. (Something done on Morris & the Rookie for the same reason) The first line is actually "What the hell was that?" The second is "Holy Shit." An excellent synth soundtrack (by J.J. Abrams, no less! Some moments clearly stuck in the Duffer Brothers' minds) merged with perfect stock library music of the time period. When a woman has to quickly pack, she does so in the nude so that she has ALL her clothing in front of her. For what the film is, there are some impressively cinematic shots, showing some attempt and skill.
At roughly 80 minutes, you'd think it would not waste time (even in chase scenes, with plenty of dry ice and smoke machines). You'd be wrong. Shootouts seemingly last forever. And sure, nearly every line reading is said without conviction, and maybe Nightbeast doesn't attack the same way as the Predator. And maybe the sex scene looks like parents...someone's parents...your parents, getting it on.
By the way, am I the only one noticing the similarity between the Sheriff and the first producer of Late Night, Barry Sand?
In the end, it's good is good, it's bad is awful...middle of the road for me. But we're not even 5 films in and I've already felt I've seen the worst. At least I hope so.
#46 - The Dead Next Door (1989)
Back of the VHS description: THE DEAD NEXT DOOR is a zombie lover's dream come true! An inventive scientist has created the ultimate virus: it takes over and replaces a corpse's cells, using it as a slave to keep supplying its favorite dish: humans! When the virus goes awry, the government fights back by creating a crack team of soldiers called The Zombie Squad. Their mission: save the humans, and seek out and destroy the dead! From the streets of Washington, D.C. to the fields of Virginia and on to the suburbs of Akron, Ohio, (editor's note: WTF?) our heroes fight a nonstop struggle for life and death, along the way, stumbling onto an insane religious cult bent on keeping the dead alive and well until the (box ripped) comes for their ultimate mission...to (box ripped)"
This one came out on video in November of 1989, juuuuust under the wire. It's also a very funny, creative spin on zombie movies. Shit, whatever sins this movie commits (zombies that run?!), look at it this way: a zombie rents VHS tapes, naturally frightening the customers and owners, with a father holding a child running out. It's touches like that show, almost immediately, that you'll have to pay attention to this one to find the hidden gems (and not just obvious, but welcome laughs like a car casually hitting a zombie)
A zombie eating a tire with blood on it
"Somewhere in Virginia"
"You up for a visit to Dr. Molsen's torture chamber?"
"Well, Dr. Savini!"
"Nothing will happen. I stake my hat and my life on it."
And every time the pacing lags (for a movie that essentially lasts 70 minutes), well, a zombie bites another human, more gore, and here we go again. In reality, this is just the kind of film/video that belongs on this list. In the fall - the next 5 on this list. These are my thoughts, what did you think?
To pin down the exact date would be difficult, but I remember where I was (a video store) and who I was with (Mike). At that age, the rentals completely depended on who was with me - comedy or TV and weird stuff would usually be picked with other friends. With Mike, though, we'd wander over to the Horror section. While there was the name or "known" titles, my instincts looking for the strange (a trait I carried over from Bloomington) was something he adjusted to pretty quick. Our definition of "good" didn't even exist. Something in each title would be worth it, and with unknown Horror titles, you know and they know the cover art will be key.
Sometimes it is artwork, sometimes a photo that has either nothing to do with the plot or isn't even in the film at all. That's all it takes to get the rental and now the wonder begins. Will it actually be good? Will it be bad/good? Will it be ok but include once specific scene that's worth it? Is a woman topless? There will be something, somewhere, worth our effort.
Fast forward. Beyond Donovan's store (which had many, many more unknown titles). The late, lamented FEARnet was a glorious place that did not discriminate (for better or worse) on the content. There were some titles we'd air that, honestly, didn't fit the genres at all. Some, at best, should have been left behind. The difference was the intended audience simply wouldn't let that happen. The loyalty of the Horror audience is genuine and strong, so even at my advanced age, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that titles I've never heard of (and, upon researching, were little-seen) received a Blu-Ray transfer with all sorts of goodies. The audience won't let it die.
It turns out there are more titles I've never heard of. A LOT of titles. So much so, that when Bleeding Skull released a list of "The 50 Best Trash-Horror films of the 1980's" I knew I had an assignment. The moment I sent it to Drew, he felt the same way. And so, in the coming months, he and I will review the titles from #50 to #1. How will we feel (besides fortified)? Will we watch something and find a hidden gem? Will either of us find one that we think is dog dung, all things aside? There's only one way to find out. Look at the cover art once again, pick it up off the shelf, and walk toward the counter. It's a couple bucks, nothing more. You have a few days to let the tape sit on top of the machine before you press play, and then...
What parts of Dealville evolve and what parts do not will always surprise me. I'll think I can count on an area to remain swanky only to find out it's been razzed. You can't depend on any of that, but you can count on the hunt. It was under these pretenses that I went to an old Italian haunt for a dealmaking lunch. The location was a block from an old home...a block also from that nutty intersection, Sunset and Crescent Heights.
After a pleasant greeting from the chef, instead of re-connecting we immediately took stock. He said graduation "is at hand and Father's Day is around the corner." But we're not here to celebrate either and we're not going to fall into the trap of talking about the old workplace...yet. It was more about current dealings framed about the surroundings.
"That used to be a Union 76 station, but I don't know why it's a vacant lot." Me either, but just the fact that it IS helps, doesn't it? Then again, he and I used to work at the same company, and now we don't. I kept trying to steer the conversation to the current and that if we were going to go to the "old days" it shouldn't involve us. At least, I hope not.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised by this fact, but over the past couple years, I've struggled to review culture. Not just for this screed, but to keep up learning of new shows, music, etc. I don't find myself just going back to the old well so much as straining at something...just what, I couldn't say. It may or may not exist.
Memories can last forever, but swank doesn't. You have to appreciate these things while you can. Get knee deep into it. If my time out here has taught me anything, it really is that - "enjoy it while you can" because for every place you love that's exactly the same as it always was, the other 80% are long gone. And these things aren't the new of which I search, they've replaced not the rundown but instead the ember of time with sterile forced fun. All things considered; I'd rather keep my money. How defiant! I've only been able to watch 1 Dodgers game all season (when I was available) but I've also saved over $400 since the offseason.
And some of that money can be spent at places like that Italian place as we dine on the patio, mainlining iced tea on a sunny summer day, worn out old songs playing while we discuss the new. I looked beyond to that intersection, saw my old self, and raised my glass. I wonder what he'd think of me. I'm not sure what I think of him (besides the parental want of help and guidance). Back to now, the waiter took the plate and we acknowledged Drew's old phrase:
This is the day of the expanding home, of space anew, of buckets that are filled with cash to be set afire. Real things are turned around, but the work is not done. It's never done, because when one item is checked, the next much be matched. And you want to be fair to everyone and everything, and so, sooner or later, these are also improved.
Long ago, stuck in the mire, I heard a phrase that wasn't meant to be advice but was quickly taken as such: "Love is like money: you have to make it, lose it, and then make it again to know its meaning." The love part, that's another day, but while things were stockpiling for a point, once the ball started rolling, it all came out. Not wants but wants tied to needs. As such, one can't help but be caught off guard when the artist formerly known as Smiley suddenly emails about a new TV she saw that's on sale. Well hell, this time I didn't have to lift a fucking finger. Is it color? Cool, let's do it.
I say all of this when I think back to yesterday where I was feted with rhubarb and rhubarb related items. I related nutty times in Las Vegas. I spent hours in the dirt preparing the soil with the Big Scoop. We then relaxed with the newest member of the family, a crested gecko. As she (he? We don't know yet, but whatever) sat on my shoulder as she likes to do, surveying her surroundings, I related to the Scoop "You remember, it was a year ago when you said you wanted one and I told you give it time. We'll strike when it's hot. Maybe toward the tail end (haha) of seemingly smart buying, which is how my life has gone, but it would happen. The gecko turned into a fish, then a bird, and then back to a gecko. But here we are. She climbs up my arm every time, the steps at once fast and measured, each foot down specific and exact.
"Wait! Careful!" Careful? I haven't moved and neither has she, so let's ALL calm down, OK? Deep breaths. The setup is done. We have plenty of time to sort shit out. Just keep making it happen. Keep making deals. Let the wind fall. Let it work itself. Go all the way. Later, and only later, will you be able to look around, smile and nod, capturing the full scope of all your hard work. And then, like before and after, onward!
And to think - I thought the only hassle was going to be the drive there and back. A guy I knew in college once said Long Beach is"just too far enough to force people to come down and visit." Well, I waited this time so that the Grand Prix was the prior weekend. As we passed the still-up stands to Ocean Blvd., I was trying to make the best of what I consider "uncomfortable relaxation."
The Dog Beach sounds like a good idea in theory: you don't have to swim or tan if you don't want to (and with all sorts of rando dogs about, you wont), your dog can lose its mind for a while, and maybe you'll get a laugh or two. And, to be honest, I think what I just said about the Dog Beach I could say to ANY beach...a good idea in theory. Sounds fun. Then you go and do it and, well, you know.
Good luck eating that hearty sandwich you brought for lunch. Might as well have blew a whistle and sent em all showing up. I'm in a chair doing what looks like leg bicycle exercises while I attempt to eat. Despite the less than tropic temps, just the sight of the ocean led the Big Scoop into the waves. After a break (where I sat as "blocker" and she dined in the back of the tent) she returned to the water. A little bit later, I considered what it would take to conspire to leave. Maybe 30 minutes or so from now, I'll start to put the word out.
As I neared the waves, 2 out of control dogs came out of nowhere and careened into the artist formerly known as Smiley's left knee...the very one surgically repaired years ago. Of course, no owners in sight, no one claiming anything, and as we tended to the fallen I felt my convictions being proven. See, rest this, I'll help pack up, we go.
I walk up to get the Big Scoop's towel and as I return to the water there is a commotion. As I look down she yelps "my foot really hurts!" There is blood. Well isn't this the fucking icing on the shitcake. This has become such a deal that 2 lifeguards have left the tower to come by. "Yeah, I think that's a stingray sting." What? There are fucking STINGRAYS about? Why aren't there signs? Why no warning from you 2? "Yeah, do you live nearby?" Um...no. "OK, what you gotta do is put it in hot water. That'll make it heal." While I appreciate your insight, could you maybe do you fucking job and help with, I don't know...a band aid? Anything?
Perhaps not wanting to bother with it or too stoned or wanting to be stoned, he agrees to take us to another lifeguard station to solve this. In the bed of a pickup, not inside, because the blood is getting all over and so are the screams. Upon arrival I have no idea where I am, but this lifeguard has a hose and a giant yellow plastic bag. The bag reads "STINGRAY" and over the screams and cries of those who "will never go in the ocean again" put the foot in the bag so that we can put in hot water - the kind of hot water that is at hot tub level, which feels so good to someone who is already bleeding and in pain. So begins a rather sick game of fill in, console as much as an inconsolable child will tolerate (in some of those moments she told me she "needs her space" which lasted about 15 seconds before I had to return to the Scoop), dump out, and repeat.
Soon enough, though, we are not alone: in comes a surfer in his 20s; even with foot coverings, for the same thing. Then a kayak victim on BOTH feet. And then a women who seemed on the verge of tears. And then another. Once the supplies of pain meds and ice cream arrived, I looked from one end to another: 8 wounded, 2 fellow surfers and 3 lifeguards onlooking, and me. That, after maybe 90 minutes, the wound was cleaned enough, pain subsided enough, attitude adjusted enough to leave for another hour-long drive, I was relieved more than I've been in years.
That night, at a Mexican restaurant, I ordered the tallest tumbler of sangria they served. I gave the big scoop a cheeseburger and enchiladas because she needed her strength. I kept being told "this will be SOME story one day. You'll always remember it." Shit, man, I'm still in the thick of it now. It's a story now, not in the future. It's one that the sangria healed, the Easter candy soothed, and the following night's dinner led everyone to agree: can the weirdo shit please stop?!
I've written in the past about how I don't miss making March Madness picks, but in that screed I didn't mention the one thing I do miss. Just thinking about it now makes me melancholy. It was the one thing that appeared before the tournament started, and it wasn't looked at the second the tournament ended...until March 1st, the following year: The message board.
The board itself took on a personality all its own. I would write polls in the classic Letterman Late Night style: 2 "serious" answers and 1 go-for-laughs answer. Jake would try to include something mildly serious on who was paying, how the scoring would go, but even he would have to drop a "DURRRR" in there by the end. Drew's would ensure his "question" would be followed by a long list chockablock with quotes from something - Caddyshack, Seinfeld, it didn't matter. When referencing a pick of Potsy's, there would naturally be food references a-plenty, some so specific and local it likely left me confounded. I knew the purpose and could read into it, of course.
And Potsy understood this too, but when your focus is on betting games and brandy slush, you don't have time to write polls yourself. So he'd write a message like the title of this blog and, rightfully, get shamed for it. You want gold, pal? You gotta pay the price. All the same, I write this in his memory.
This nostalgia rush made me wonder: are these things still out there? Does a server somewhere in the bowels of CBS HQ save these things? I had to find out for myself. Upon visiting a page I hadn't in a while I was requested to "unlock the full power of cbssports.com." Not knowing what they mean by this insistent request, I naturally clicked "I'll fix it next time." Some searching found "bracket games" and something called "Hickory Hal's Hog Locker."
Empty. I was more disappointed than anything, but I knew my work wasn't finished. Some looking around found an account settings page that included "show archived teams." Nope. Nothing. It, like making selections, is all a memory.
But what memories!
How would you best describe the players for Northern Iowa?
A) Overachievers
B) Gritty band of victors
C) Ugly as sin
It's finally March, which means we get to see some old friends again. Which do you miss the most the rest of the year?
A) Belmont
B) Old Dominion
C) Jack in the Box's taco sale
There were polls that went over the line, but you don't know you've done so until you've fallen, right? (It was either me comparing Potsy to Elvis or something about a rope belt...I don't know, but when you're on a roll you let it fly) There was the "Beef Stew Award" given to the person whose championship pick didn't even win a game. There were even some to set the mood because, what else is there to say? From 2009 I remember:
Hey Stan and Trip! Feeling good about picking Pittsburgh to win it all?
A) No.
B) No.
It took me no longer doing picks at all (and, to be honest, no one else writing on the message board) to realize what I missed most: it was our collective excitement of the tournament. It was our never-ending search for upsets. It was Potsy automatically putting UCSB in the sweet 16. It was clowning on someone getting something way wrong (someone I don't know once picked Texas A&M to win it all...and this was in men's basketball...and not in a video game) or propping up those who got it right (Potsy recovering from early round defeats to win it all one year and use his winnings on gallons of Butter Brickle ice cream).
As with so many things, time marches on. People fade away, contacts are lost. My version of this is now the Big Scoop and I cheering on our adopted team Loyola-Chicago through another run. It's not whether it's better, just different. But as this time of year moves on, I'll send a text here and there, and somewhere, in the moment, there's a glimmer of what once was...and like so many sure-fire picks, crossed out and crumpled up.
This is it, folks. All the distractions that surround me can not hide the fact that the Los Angeles Rams are Super Bowl Champions! Not the Rams somewhere else. Not just getting to the Super Bowl, which was cool, too, but not as gold as this - the feeling yesterday, today, for years from now. 6 years ago, they'd just moved back to town, a dream come true. And now, here's the other: a ring! An LA ring! Oh, the satisfaction.
Who is this championship "for" (so to speak)?
The current staff
Current coaches (who did just enough, who I wish gambled a little more, who I wished realized we don't have a good OL and stopped running the ball WEEKS ago [so we're one-dimensional, at least it's a dimension] but also had the stones to call an end-around of all things with the game on the line)
Current players obviously, some of whom are injured, even a couple who should be cut in March for hands of stone and I'm looking at you and I won't even say your name but hey you're a Super Bowl Champion now
The front office - more about them later
Members of the past who gave their all
I would appreciate "Stan Mustache" to make the gesture of a ring, sent to the likes of the family of Deacon Jones, the Youngbloods, Vince Ferragamo, Eric Dickerson, Flipper Anderson, Nolan Cromwell, Fred Dryer, I could go on and on, but you get my drift.
Fans
No shit? Well, yeah, but why do we do this? Why do we go all in on a team? The emotions, the euphoria and dismissive attitudes on something we can't control? If we choose to, we do it for the reasons like last night, this morning, and the glow that will last for the next handful of years. If I can wear my 2020 World Series Champions T shirt still delighted by the result, what's stopping me? Maybe this will blunt or in the least town down any near-future calamities. We won LVI, and that's cool. So dial it back and know there are good times. (I think I'm just writing for my future self now)
And now a mea culpa.
13 months ago I wrote many friends about the trade for Stafford. My reaction was like getting an instant junk shot: all caps, incredulous at what was sold to me and (more specifically) what the Rams were giving away. "They're going all-in! So what if they won't have a draft pick until 2030? They want that Super Bowl now!" was what we were told. I don't know that the phrase necessarily applies, but the sentiment was there. As a fan of the team, don't you want that, though? You want the team you choose to give your interest to do something, even if it's not what you'd do, to show they want to succeed. And sometimes that comes from years of failure because young talent comes together and blooms at the same time. As fans, we tend to like that more because we can see the development like a plant taking root and beginning to grow. It's clear to us. Cobbling together many good parts seems good in theory, but be honest: how often have you seen that fail, underwhelm, not pay off? More times than I care to recall.
Early in the season I admitted the obvious, which was a guarded apology. I considered Stafford an "older Goff" with a ceiling and one prone to make the wrong choice. And, for a stretch this season, I was proven right. In the end, though, someone who knows much more about football than me was right. Those 13 months ago, that knowledgeable football person wanted that deal. And while it could have been handled better, can you dispute the results?
Long ago, Drew Boatman wrote such a statement: "Sometimes, I need to just admit I am wrong about sports." This was a statement personal to him, but believe me that I could likely make a similar list, though it would be things like "we should have kept this person because I was right when I agreed with the team about letting another person go" But Matthew Stafford might be my biggest error. A guy whose mere thought could only yield one positive statement ("go Dawgs, hunker down") and maybe something about how bad it must be to be stuck in Detroit. (Both statements are true, by the way) But HIM? On "my team?" Oh NO. All wrong. Why? Why did we do this?!
Upon arrival in Las Vegas, I was taken to my casino by a very Potsy-esque character (difference being he's alive). A 3-decade veteran, we shared our own thoughts on the changes over that time, good and bad. He knew of all conventions, back streets, and where the rare deals still exist. In the course of this conversation, he shared this flash: "The Mirage is supposed to be torn down next year for a new casino." What's that, you say?! Well, I never made a dime there, and I guess Love has played its course there, but is that really it? Hard Rock bought it and is going to try again in town, so is that how it goes? And if so, what's it like in a dead casino walking?
I knew the only way to find out is to dive head-in myself and check it out. Jim was unusually flaky, so there would be no reunion in-town...just me. The Mirage is still as you remember it...the big open dome front, the tropical vibe, the unusual cigarette smoke mixing in with that tropical vibe, the generic named restaurants ("Snack Stand", "Sports Bar"), that was all the same. But look deeper, and you can see tell-tale signs. The ceilings are low, a sign of the old days. There are rooms and areas that used be for something else that are now complete empty. There were stores, but now the doors to those are closed. Don't look over there, and don't ask. They'll drive this until the tank is empty, and then we'll all wave goodbye.
When I walked outside again, I wandered around the grounds. Even for a weekday evening, it was unusually slow and quiet. If security wasn't what it was, I'd have done more diving, but to be honest, I didn't care that much. I'm not trying to be brazen, but honest: it's another old name you can add to the list in town. I never had any success there, except seeing a great show, so yeah, why not razz it?
What the cab driver said was still ringing in my ears. I went from casino to casino in walking distance looking for that elusive deal. His take was South Point, but a car ride just for a meal deal went against the whole point. So I continue to wander until something very bizarre caught my eye: Casino Royale. It's still here? It's still here!
A little touch of downtown out near the Strip, Casino Hotel almost brings laughter the minute you walk in (a wall of mirrors is the first touch) but don't sell it short. It doesn't try to be anything it isn't. But I kept walking, and then I saw the food options. And I saw this:
I had to take the photo quickly to as not be seen. It was something that was burned into my brain forever, but as you can witness, had I not, my explanation would not do any justice.
The "Bundle Deal" - 3 corn dogs for $6. Are you up for the challenge?
The foot long dog for just $2.49, and all sauce pumps (all = 3) right on the counter.
The "Manager's Special" which consists of chicken tenders, fries, and a drink
Please do not enter this door: it is for Snack Nook employees only
On the website they suggest to "swing by our Food Court for lunch or a quick snack" and that it is "on premises." The dutifully noted "only White Castle on the West Coast" is mere steps away, which might be why there was no one at the counter on either side. Or maybe because there were no seats and tables to enjoy my dog. Was I supposed to be enjoying it as I balanced it on the counter of a slot machine? It's a mystery.
Walking out I was left to reflect. Las Vegas remains an enigma. I know my favorites, and plans, but Las Vegas changes, and we have to as well. It rolls along and like the many people handing out "Free Poker Tournament" flyers or hooker's business cards: when faced with either attention or apathy, it goes forward. There will always be "new," we will always be able to look back, and we'll start planning memories from the future.
