DAMAGED Reading: BRONSON'S LOOSE: THE MAKING OF THE DEATH WISH FILMS and MONDO MANDINGO: THE FALCONHURST BOOKS AND FILMS

BRONSON'S LOOSE: THE MAKING OF THE DEATH WISH FILMS and MONDO MANDINGO: THE FALCONHURST BOOKS AND FILMS
both by Paul Talbot
iUniverse
Review by Louis Fowler

It’s hard to believe there was a time when a guy like Charles Bronson could be a headlining, name-above-the-title box-office draw — an action hero to the men and a heartthrob to the ladies. With his salt-and-pepper hair, weathered face and perpetual pissed-off squint, Bronson was the ultimate silent bad-ass, relying on pure brute force to take out anyone who done him or his loved ones wrong. In other words: he was no pussy.

Action films today are, for the most part, a sad, dismal affair. Peppered with pretty boys like Paul Walker who look like they just came fresh off the set of the latest Falcon Studios twink fuck-fest flick and mince around, barely able to carry a gun, you gotta sit back and ask yourself: What happened to actors of the Bronson mold? Where are the men?

Like everything else that exudes alpha-male fortitude in this society, these guys — these action heroes — have been relegated to the barbaric past, with history constantly being rewritten and retold so that these dinosaurs and their films are the products of a bygone era of brawn-over-brains, above-the-law, shoot-first-ask-questions-later cinema that was only enjoyed by the most stupid of fly-over country Neanderthals, the most unenlightened of misogynistic assholes.

And just look where that thinking has gotten men today: They can’t change a tire. They eat tempeh burgers. They go to the doctor when get a little cough. They cry after sex. They vote Democrat.

All. Thanks. To. Fucking. Paul. Walker.

Paul Talbot knows this is all bullshit. Paul Talbot knows that a steady diet of ultraviolent Bronson flicks are important for a well-regulated, well-maintained masculine movie diet, so much so that he has written a bible of sorts on the subject, the insanely seminal BRONSON’S LOOSE!: THE MAKING OF THE DEATH WISH FILMS.

Loosely based on the novels by Brian Garfield — who apparently disavowed the movie adaptations for their violence — DEATH WISH is the story of Paul Kersey, a pacifist liberal architect who goes shithouse when his wife is raped and murdered, and his daughter just plain raped. Does he sit back and let the cops try to solve the case? Does he try to track down the criminals to have a discussion with them about their abusive childhoods? Fuck, no! He grabs some firearms and makes like a human street-sweeper, clearing them of criminals and thugs, one bullet at a time. And he gets away with it.

Talbot thoroughly recounts how the movie got made, from the numerous script rewrites to how it was written with Jack Lemmon (!) and Dustin Hoffman (!!) in mind as Kersey, to its runaway blockbuster success, public wish-fulfillment and media backlash from all the typical watchdog culprits. Talbot goes just as in-depth — if not more — in chapters based around each of the sequels. He treats each one with authoritative respect, never belying it as lesser or with fewer words because it’s not as well-known or didn’t do as well, money-wise. He’s got a real love and admiration for these movies and it shows. (But it’s a manly, tough love, natch.)

In his newest book, Talbot brings that same authoritative respect to an even slipperier slope than vigilantism: pre-Civil War-era slave/interracial-sex fantasies that are filled with grotesque brutal violence for fun. MONDO MANDINGO: THE FALCONHURST BOOKS AND FILMS delves even deeper into the most outre of pop-culture recesses than BRONSON’S LOOSE; the touchy ground that MONDO treads on truly awards Talbot with being a pop-culture documentarian where no sacred cow is left unboiled alive in oil.

We all know about the notorious 1975 potboiler MANDINGO and, to a lesser extent, its scummier sequel, DRUM, but apparently, they were based on a series of novels — 14 “official” titles, plus numerous rip-offs. I had no idea about any of this, but, as Talbot goes through each and every book with critical detail worthy of a Chaucer dissertation, they becoming tempting reads that I would wholly invest in if they weren’t so damn hard to track down. Just think how down and dirty the movies were; the books amp up the masturbatory sleaze not seen since the comedic works of de Sade. Who do I gotta horsewhip to get an omnibus of this junk put out?

Granted, both of these books are extremely niche in their appeal, but to those who find the subjects of Bronson revenge thrillers or lusty tales of overseer debauchery dreadfully undertaught by today’s school system, here are your new textbooks, fully approved by the state of Texas.

BIG LOTS, BIGGER DEALS: My Big Lots Closeout DVD Purchases for 08.01.10, PART TWO!!!

I know, I know. Many of you may think you're "too good" for discount store Big Lots. I was once like you, until one day a year or two ago I wandered in and found so many great DVDeals. And while they always had great stuff, for some reason in the past six months, Big Lots' acquisitions have gone from great to insane in the membrane. Insane in the brain, if you will. They are getting real DVDs from real studios and, best of all, all for only three bucks! Here's my haul from this week--feel free to post yours in the comments!



TO READ PART ONE, CLICK HERE...

* FAIR GAME - Remember when Cindy Crawford used to be considered the hottest chick in America? I vaguely do, but then again, around that time I was listening to a lot of Amy Grant so my hormones were elsewhere. Thusly, I completely missed out on FAIR GAME, widely considered one of the best-worst movies of the 90s. Luckily, Big Lots has rectified that for me, and at about the same price of a first-run ticket back then.

* THE COWBOYS - John Wayne died with twelve pounds of undigested beef in his colon. And he had cancer. And he was punching a McGovern supporter in the jaw. And he made an insanely necessary western about a grizzled rancher who adopts eleven kids and puts them immediately to work on a 400 mile cattle-drive. It's like the BAD NEWS BEARS if the ragtag baseball team grabbed pistols and gunned down the dude who murdered Buttermaker. Which would've been a helluva better movie, if you ask me.

* COBRA - The Stallone franchise that never was but should've been. One of his top five movies, disagree with me all you want. Sly is Lt. Marion "Cobra" Cobretti--that's a lucky coincidence--who, according to the back of the DVD, is a "one-man assault force whose laser-mount submachine gun and pearl-handled Colt .45 spit pure crimestopping venom". Hell yeah. I want that chiseled on my tombstone: "Here lies Louis Fowler. While he was alive, he spit pure crimestopping venom."

* UP THE ACADEMY - Mad Magazine's attempt to copy the success of STRIPES and MEATBALLS, adding one necessary element: COMPLETELY SUCKING.

* ELVIS: THAT'S THE WAY IT IS - One of my favorite SNL skits of all-time was when Nick Cage hosted and they did something called "Tiny Elvis". In "Tiny Elvis", when driving though a nuclear testing facility, Elvis is accidentally exposed to radiation and is shrunk to about two or three inches tall. It mostly consisted of him saying "Hey man, lookit that there steerin' wheel! That's huuuuuge, man!" and his cronies agreeing with "That's why they call you 'the man', Tiny E!". This documentary is a lot like that, only with a full-size Elvis.

* THE SHEPHERD: BORDER PATROL - My Big Lots partner-in-crime John G. swears that Isaac Florentine is the best-yet-wholly-unheralded American martial arts director working today. I haven't watched this yet, so I can't confirm. But, you know, even if the fighting ain't all that great, how bad can a movie that stars Jean-Claude Van Damme as a border patrol agent named Jack Robideaux be all that bad? Don't answer that.

* SPIES LIKE US - Here's one of those movies that, whenever it comes on TV--even regular network TV--I'll stop what I'm doing and watch it to the end. Why did I never pick it up on DVD? As far as I can remember, it has always been a cheap DVD, usually around five bucks, still in that cheap Warner Bros. cardboard flip-case. What's really messed up is that now, and I'm pretty sure of this, WB is going to release a super-special edition with the Paul McCartney title-song video as a special feature. Sons-a-bitches.

FISTS OF VENGEANCE: 16 FILM MARTIAL ARTS COLLECTION - Yeah, this is one of those cheap Mill Creek box-sets, often with sub-par prints and public domain titles. But so what? Get the eff over it. You really gonna complain for $3? Seriously? I mean, you get 16 movies here. Really? Still? You, sir, are a scumbag.

THE ESSENTIALS DIRECTOR SERIES: JEAN-LUC GODARD - I'm not gonna lie to you: I'm not the world's biggest fan of Godard. (I am, however, the world's biggest Yakov Smirnoff fan, but I'll save that for another day.) I tend to like his more surreal flicks: WEEK END, ALPHAVILLE, HAIL MARY--you know, no big deal, I can name-drop his shit when I have to--but this set contains his more accessible works: BREATHLESS, LE PETIT SOLDAT, LES CARABINIERS and NOTRE MUSIQUE. Which I'm sure are good. Right? Even if I find any of these totally boring, when I see a Jean-Luc Godard box-set at a Big Lots for $5, I feel like I kinda have to pick it up, completely without question. I would have to be a serious piece of illiterate human waste if I left a Jean-Luc Godard box-set sitting there next to copies of NATIONAL LAMPOON'S REPLI-KATE and THE GUMBALL RALLY. Even if those movies are far more entertaining.

PREDATORS: Catch a falling Brody, put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day.

PREDATORS
Starring Adrien Brody, Alice Braga, Topher Grace
Directed by Nimrod Amtal
20th Century Fox
Review by Louis Fowler

I wish I could sit down with the High Council of Predators, or, at the very least, their Parks and Rec representatives, and just let them know that they aren't the best of hunters. Yeah, I'll probably get my spine ripped out for the efforts, but these dreadlocked jokers need to know that they are probably the lamest killers in the universe. With their invisibility, sonic hearing, laser cannons, extending pikes and, when they especially feel like throwing a temper tantrum, a wrist-based nuclear device, where's the skill? Where's the thrill of the hunt? Where's the challenge?

Disagree if you want, but Predators are the galactic equivalent of throwing a stick of dynamite into a lake to catch a couple of fish. They are the interstellar version of shooting wolves from a helicopter. They are the old rich white men of the galaxy, laying down their fat cash to spend a week in a private resort that brings the game to you, making doubly sure that you never once break a sweat as you sit in an air-conditioned watchtower that routinely spits out feed to draw the unknowing deer in for a quick, clean kill.

I'm actually willing to bet that, strip a Predator of all his goodies, leave him with only a somewhat pointed stick and a loin cloth, within minutes he'll be in the fetal position on the jungle floor, crying for daddy to come pick him up and give him a vanilla cone from McDonald's on the way home, slowly pushing the buttons of his atomic wristwatch as the Ecto-Cooler-like tears stream-down his vagina-esque face.

That brings us to PREDATORS, the latest in the franchise and the only one to really reclaim the spinal-cord laced mantle laid neatly before us in the woefully underrated PREDATOR 2, but not by much. Produced by Robert Rodriguez and directed by Nimrod Amtal, PREDATORS opens with Adrien (SOLO) Brody free-falling and panicking, reminding me of many a nightmare I've had, only at least Brody's wearing pants. And not fucking Abraham Lincoln.

Now having a dude free-fall from the very first frame is probably one of the top ten most kick-ass ways to open a movie. So then why is the next thirty or so minutes so damn interminable? You'd think that the thing would hit the ground running—literally—but there is so much needless character and plot development that it brings the movie to a grinding halt. It's thirty minutes of Brody and company wandering around a vaguely familiar landscape, asking repeatedly “Where are we?” while each character—ranging from a Chechnyan mercenary with kids to a well-dressed Yakuza—all give background info on who they are, why they're there and what their special talent for killing is. Apparently the filmmakers were on the hunt for dialogue filler, and found a whole horde of it in this first act. Forget the chopper—get to an editor!

Don't get me wrong: I am all for character development and all that crap. Especially if I am watching, say, EAT PRAY LOVE. (Please, EAT PRAY LOVE, slather on the character development!) But, sadly, I am not watching EAT PRAY LOVE, I am watching PREDATORS and I know all I need to know about this movie and whatever plot it is supposed to have right there in the title. I know that there are going to be some Predators that are going to mow some unlucky fuckers down and...well, that's all I need. Guys, feel free to make the hunted humans as cardboard and two-dimensional as you want. Trust me: you will not, in any way, hurt this film.

After a gulag-like slog for the captives, the Predators—and, by Predators, I mean two or three, thanks, guys—show up and kinda-sorta wreak some havoc, unleashing some wild boar-dogs on the troupe and, you know, walking around all invisible and sneaking up behind people and gutting them, like total pussies are wont to do.

You expect the film to carry itself nicely down this path for the next hour, but, then, the ever-expanding Laurence (OSMOSIS JONES) Fishburne comes out of nowhere with an unnecessary cameo as a crazy feller who lives in an abandoned Predator ship and needs to exfoliate ASAP. We all chuckle heartily as he does his best impersonation of “crazy”, talking to imaginary best-friends while giving little snippets of not really important plot info here and there. And then he blows the Hell up. Hopefully his paycheck didn't get singed on the way out.

By the last act, things pick up and it truly becomes the PREDATOR movie that we all knew it could be—well, should be—and finally does what it is supposed to do. But is it a case of too little, too late? Almost. Should it stop you watching it? Of course not, especially when it's a nice, sunshiny day out and there are so many books to be read. We all fully understand what the filmmakers were trying to do: replicate the feel and pace of the original PREDATOR and give it the ol' sideways flippy-floppy—but c'mon, man: we've already seen that. Hundreds and hundreds of times. Do. Something. New. Was the original this tedious?

Massive story problems aside, PREDATORS still has a lot going for it. For example, after two spin-off sequels completely bereft of any type of lighting or camera operator whatsoever, the filmmakers not only invested in some lights, but a tripod. Go team. It was nice to actually be able to see a PREDATOR movie again, what with me dropping all that skrilla on a ticket and all.

Also, let's hear it for the casting, especially Brody. When Nicolas Cage entered the “Nicolas Cage”-era of his career, it kinda happened overnight and took everyone by surprise. We didn't know how to react because we, as a country, were fully unprepared. However, between this, SPLICE and GIALLO, we are the witnesses to history, seeing the building blocks to Brody's own “Nicolas Cage”-era. It is unfolding right before our eyes! Don't you dare turn away, either! I look forward to each and every thing Brody does from here on out and treating it with a slack-jawed respect and eye-popping aplomb that is worthy of such critic-deriding and culture-creating choices.

With all that being said though, it doesn't change the fact that the PREDATORS series needs something new, something formidable. The Predators need a human force of nature that can actually present a real challenge...

OK.: I was going to save this as pitch to whoever does those mass-market PREDATOR novelizations—Dark Horse, I think—but, like my dad used to say, “if nobody else can do it right, do it your damn self”. So, Mr. Rodriguez and Mr. Amtal, please take the time to hear my brilliant pitch:

For as long as man can remember, they've come from the skies, landing and hiding, hunting and killing, using us as wasteful sport. But, when a Predator ship crash-lands on a ranch in rural Texas, this time...we're prepared. HE'S prepared. The Predators are gonna find out they've fucked with the wrong man. The wrong madman. The Motor City Madman. Ted Nugent.

PREDATORS: FREE-FOR-ALL. Coming Summer 2012.

Mull it over, fellas. I'll wait for your call.

DAMAGED Reading: PAUL IS UNDEAD: THE BRITISH ZOMBIE INVASION!

PAUL IS UNDEAD: THE BRITISH ZOMBIE INVASION
By Alan Goldsher
Gallery Books

Paperback Zombies! (Paperback Zombies!)

Dear sir or madam, will you read this book?
It took me a week to finish, will you take a look?
It's a zombie novel by a guy named Goldsher,
It stars the Beatles and he does a good job for a non-horror writer...

Non-horror writer!

It's the bloody story of a zombie band,
And a zombie plague nobody understands...
Led by John Lennon, they want to raise Hell,
With a steady supply of fresh brains loaded into their concert rider...

Their concert rider!

It's 300 pages, give or take a few,
Ringo Starr is a ninja and so is Yoko too...
Mick Jagger shows up as a zombie slayer,
And my favorite part is the shooting of the infamous butcher cover...

Infamous butcher cover!

Yeah, I really liked it, it's very clever and tight,
I'm pretty sure Goldsher's sold off the movie rights...
It's very cinematic and should be worth a few laughs,
So c'mon give it a break and please hire a decent screenwriter...

A decent screenwriter!

Paperback Zombies! (Paperback Zombies!)
Paperback Zombies! (Paperback Zombies!)
Paperback Zombies! (Paperback Zombies!)

BIG LOTS, BIGGER DEALS: My Big Lots Closeout DVD Purchases for 08.01.10, PART ONE!!!

I know, I know. Many of you may think you're "too good" for discount store Big Lots. I was once like you, until one day a year or two ago I wandered in and found so many great DVDeals. And while they always had great stuff, for some reason in the past six months, Big Lots' acquisitions have gone from great to insane in the membrane. Insane in the brain, if you will. They are getting real DVDs from real studios and, best of all, all for only three bucks! Here's my haul from this week--feel free to post yours in the comments!



I used to think nothing about buying stacks and stacks of $3 DVDs from Big Lots in one sitting, spending God knows how much inbetween great deals on out of date Capri Suns and Shania Twain cologne, but, recently, I've been leaving with maybe only two or three titles at a time. Not because of financial troubles, mind you, but because the Lots are getting the most mainstream titles possible from Columbia, Paramount and Warner Bros., leaving behind those real cult rarities that made them so awesome to begin with. Gone are the copies of THE HOWLING 3 and LEGEND OF THE CHUPACABRA, replaced with pallets of MUST LOVE DOGS and MONA LISA SMILE. And, while for most people three-buck copies of pseudo-feminist Julia Roberts flicks are a shower-nozzle masturbation fantasy unto itself, but, for me, it's just more money in my pocket to spend elsewhere. Like on tacos. Delicious tacos.

Still, over the past couple of months, I've been able to, on occasion when no one is looking, sink to the bottom of the neatly-packed stacks like a fat kid in a McDonald's Playplace ball-pit, finding a few real treasures, as few and far between as they are. I've bought enough to make a two-part posting, although I doubt most of them will make you all that jealous, like in the past...

* THE 6TH DAY - A fine-enough latter-day Schwarzenegger effort from 2000, made around the time when you could tell that Arnold just kinda gave up on this whole acting thing. END OF DAYS, people? THE 6TH DAY is entertaining but also instantly forgettable. As a matter of fact, I saw this in the theaters and for ten years, erased its existence from my memory, right until I saw this in the BL stacks, when all those memories came rushing back, causing a slight nosebleed. I'm holding it in my hands right this very minute and am still not sure if this is real.

* THE BRADY BUNCH MOVIE - Surprisingly, I didn't own this comedy classic--and, yes, it really is a comedy classic. Some of it is pretty dated, mostly for all the ill-advised grunge-rock music and fashions, but the massage remains the same: by tattling on your friends, you're really just tattling on yourself. And by tattling on your friends, you're just telling them that you're a tattletale. Now is that the tale you want to tell?

* WATERMELON MAN - I miss the old days when race was dealt with head-on, with real humor that wasn't afraid to offend. Try getting SANFORD AND SON on the air today; the NAACP would probably call it a subversive "Tea Party hate-crime" plot! Someone from the Ministry of Entertainment is gonna get fired for that shit! Aside from Redd Foxx, Godfrey Cambridge did a damn good job at making light of whitey in this tripped-out 60s comedy about a stodgy white businessman who wakes up to find himself a total soul brother. The hypocrisy of liberal attitudes are utterly destroyed here, in a way that seems more important today than then. Of course, if it were to be remade today, it would probably be by Tyler Perry and would star Zac Efron. And instead of a black man, he'd be turned into the Easter Bunny. And it would be brought to you by Disney. Soundtrack by Soulja Boy.

* 48 HRS. - Has Nick Nolte always been 65? And drunk? I feel like I need to buy him a fresh pack of Hanes.

* NICOLAS CAGE TRIPLE FEATURE: FACE/OFF / SNAKE EYES / BRINGING OUT THE DEAD - Three of Nick Cage's best works, although, really, how does one honestly choose the "best"? FACE/OFF is a total action classic, SNAKE EYES is a Brian De Palma curiosity that is pretty good, and BRINGING OUT THE DEAD is Scorsese's hilarious attempt at being Oliver Stone, circa U-TURN. CAGE IS FREAKIN' AND TWEAKIN' BRO!

* HEARTBEEPS - Oh, HEARTBEEPS. So maligned, so forgotten. Andy Kaufman and Bernadette Peters "star" as robots finding love and then building a baby robot. I had not seen this since the glory-days of early 80s HBO, and, you know...it's really not all that bad. I actually teared up at one point towards the end. But, yeah, it's also pretty stupid too. So, whatever. Asshole.

* HALF PAST DEAD - Hard to believe, but there was a time when Steven Seagal was a past-his-prime joke. I know. Then, in the early aughts, he released the back-to-back action hits HALF PAST DEAD and EXIT WOUNDS, both of which I saw with Bookgasm's Rod Lott at half-past-filled premiere screenings in the "urban" part of town and had a blast. No, really: there was a drive-by. (For those keeping count, by the way, this is the tenth Seagal flick I've picked up at Big Lots. It's my own private Seagal Superstore!)

* BLACK SNAKE MOAN - Christina Ricci plays half-naked nympho white trash so good that, when you're masturbating to this, you kinda almost forget that she just got raped. Kinda.

* THE NAKED GUN - I think that Big Lots might have gotten this from Canada. Half of everything on the packaging is in French. For example, "Supplements Non Classes" means "Special Features Not Rated" in French. In other words, USA #1!

* STILL CRAZY - One of the finest, yet totally overlooked, rock movies of the past 25 years, made in the wake of the tedious overload of British underdog comedies like THE FULL MONTY. STILL CRAZY got lost and forgotten over the years, which is a shame because this is a fun, funny and touching look at past-their-prime classic rockers, with a killer soundtrack that I need to track down as well. Most of you would probably hate this though.

TO BE CONTINUED...

DAMAGED Reading: HELLBENT FOR COOKING: THE HEAVY METAL COOKBOOK: 101 BASIC RECIPIES BY METAL BANDS FROM 32 COUNTRIES

HELLBENT FOR COOKING: THE HEAVY METAL COOKBOOK: 101 BASIC RECIPIES BY METAL BANDS FROM 32 COUNTRIES
by Annick “Morbid Chef” Giroux
Bazillion Points

I'm kind of a pussy. Well, at least when it comes to metal, I'm kind of a pussy.

You see, when I think of metal, I think of Guns 'N' Roses or Motley Crue or, god forbid, Poison. Melodic paeans to debauchery, wherein the songwriter's idea of romance is pouring a fifth of Jack all over a groupie's well-worn tits. It's something I can fully identify with.

But, as I have learned from my numerous years in the music business, like I said, I am a total fucking pussy. True metal comes from bands with names like Grimorium Verum, Funerot and Faustcoven. And don't forget Necrosadist! As a matter of fact, I have already prepped myself for the scads of metal-heads with Google Alerts based around their fave bands, commenting on auto-pilot with things like “YoU Thimnk POISoN is Metal??..RoTTTING CHRIST for LIFE< FAGIT!!!”

That being said, who knew that bands with indecipherable logos and such obvious issues with Christianity would have such discernible taste-buds? Downright adorable Canadian chef Annick Giroux did, and she's compiled 101 unholy recipes from only the scrungiest of guttural bands, ranging from Pentagram's “Delicious Oriental Chicken Casserole” to Autopsy's “Mummified Jalapeño Bacon Bombs” in a cookbook that manages to eschew it's would-be novelty implications because, well, the food is actually good.

For example, the other night I made “Frijoles Borrachos”, sent in by the Colombian group Witchtrap. It's a recipe for beer-soaked beans, basically, and served with guacamole and fried plantains. The recipes are written very concise and simple enough for even the most mongoloid of metal-heads to follow. From trashy comfort food to complex lamb dishes, Giroux manages to invite everyone to the paint-sniffing party with a helpful, conversational tone that will have that old JOY OF COOKING book carving an upside-down cross into it's forearm.

But, as good as HELLBENT FOR COOKING is (I plan on doing a JULIE & JULIA like experiment with it), I can only look forward to volume two, where we get recipes from REAL metal-stars, such as Sebastian Bach's “Eggplant Pizza Gone Wild”, Tommy Lee's “Foot-Long Frank Sandwich” and Jani Lane's “Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich Chocolate Eclairs”.

I bet you thought I was going to make a “Cherry Pie” reference with that last one. Who's the poseur now?

DAMAGED Goods: BK's BBQ Ribs!

Burger King. Has. Ribs.

Let that sink in for a moment...Burger King...has ribs.

I didn't know really what to expect as I heard the news; so many things were going through my mind: were they going to be actual bone-in ribs or those processed rib-meat patties akin to a McRib sandwich? Would it be dry-rubbed with spices or slathered in a tomato-y sauce? And, most important, would they be flame-broiled right there on the spot or pre-cooked with drawn-on burn-marks and kept under a heat-lamp for hours on end, satisfying any rube with a hankering for pseudo-BBQ? I must've spent close to two weeks wishing and hoping and thinking and praying about all the different scenarios that might transpire when I got my hands on that little cardboard box of hope and wonder.

It's easy to see why Burger King has gotten off their collective asses and added such a drastically different and out-of-place item on their stagnant (but reliable) menu: their past three or four latest promotional burgers have all been nothing more than variations of two patties covered with either A-1 steak sauce, jalapenos or both. I didn't even bother to try their latest, the IRON MAN 2-inspired Whiplash burger, and you know how much I love food based on Marvel Comic adaptations. It was just more of the same! Oh, I'm sure it would have been OK, but I'm a little tired of “OK” from these guys. They can do better. They have done better.



And, once again, they ARE doing better. The BK Ribs (Is that what we're calling these? I have no idea what the “official” name is.) are phenomenally good. Good in a way that you wouldn't—shouldn't-expect from a fast-food place.

First of all, these are perfectly seasoned, perfectly seared bone-in mini half-ribs, like something you'd find at, maybe, an Applebee's on the apps menu. They aren't huge, and, for the most part, not filling...but they work! Don't get me wrong: they aren't as good as, say, some South Texas joint with a big ol' black dude manning the smoker, but, for ribs watched over by pimply 16-years-olds named Austin, they are delightfully husband-pleasing. Juicy, meaty and perfectly smokey, with the sauce thankfully served on the side. They're best ordered with onion rings and a Dr. Pepper, so as to at least have some sort of authentic BBQ air about them. You don't wanna sell out all the way, Elton John.

The price is a bit steep: $10 for the full meal and, as much as I like them, it's really a bit too cost-prohibitive to eat on a regular basis, especially for the amount. I really guess it all depends on availability of immediate ribs in your area when you get that craving. If you have a local BBQ-rib place that serves a quick and easy lunch at a reasonable price, then, by all means, go there first. But, if that rib hankering sets in about 11:30 and your work is right next door to a BK, then, by all means, order a eight piece. Hell, double and go for sixteen. You've been good, you deserve it.

Hopefully BK will keep experimenting with BBQ and, who knows, maybe even make a bigger, better rib sandwich to compete with McDonald's. Lord knows someone's got to...

A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET: One, two, Freddy's gonna bore you...

A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET
Starring Jackie Earle Haley, Rooney Mara, Kyle Gallner
Directed by Samuel Bayer
New Line Cinema
Review by Louis Fowler

I am not one of these critics that feels the immediate need to poo-poo remakes, reduxs or reimaginings. For the record, I tend to honestly like remakes; they excite and interest me. I want to see another artist's take on an established piece of pop culture history, especially in the genre film arena. You can go ahead and lament about the lack of “original ideas in Hollywood”, but, when Hollywood hands you lemons, you snort coke. And these remakes, love them or hate them, are pure uncut Colombian these days. The street value has gotta be in the millions.

Sometimes, you get better-than-the-original results, like in the cases of Rob Zombie's HALLOWEEN, Chuck Russell's THE BLOB, Neil LaBute's THE WICKER MAN or David Cronenberg's THE FLY. Not only were they bold, brave and ballsy variations, they were also inspired enough to deride audiences straight down the middle, creating the sweatiest factions of geekdom not seen since, well, whatever George Lucas did last week.

But, most times, the results are so lacklusterly bad that they inspire all the warring clans to come together and convene around the fire, passing the peace pipe and breeding a new generation of hatred and backlash that, like an wonderfully thick oceanic oil-spill, is a mess that will take years for the studios to clean up. See Roland Emmerich's GODZILLA, the CGI-nonsense that was the FOG and pretty much anything Michael Bay's Platinum Dunes touches.

That brings us to sheer indifference. While, yes, the “Dunes” (as the fans call them) did produce the remake of 1984's horror classic A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET, they've gone ahead and done the absolute worst thing possible: they just gave up. It's not a good movie, it's not a bad movie, it's just...a movie. A generic, faceless, reprehensibly boring movie that has absolutely no purpose for it's existence other than to make a couple of bucks and, possibly, keep copyrights from expiring. No one cared about this movie whatsoever.

Honestly: how hard is it to screw up a Freddy Krueger movie? The makers of the original series have run the entire gamut of a cinematic Kubler-Ross Stages of Grief, twice over, and always maintained a fresh, appealing sense of fun to the whole thing, even if they weren't fully appreciated back then. There were no rules, no limits, no sense of having to pander to anyone. Not even the fans. With every entry, a new filmmaker with different tastes and ideas was brought in and they were allowed to run wild, with proudly varying results. In retrospect, it was an amazingly creative and philosophically freeing franchise.

But those days are long gone. Those days of wine and roses have been replaced by Red Bull and a stock portfolio. If you want to experiment, get an 8-millimeter camera and go fuck yourself, nerd. You don't belong in this game. Get on the assembly line, don't make waves and collect your gold watch. That's the way Hollywood produces most of these slick horror remakes. Businessmen wanting a return on investment, not fans, are the target demographic.

Assembly line. Yeah, that's the best way to describe A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET. It's nowhere near as aggressively bad as Dunes' prior act of blasphemy, FRIDAY THE 13TH, but, instead, it just opts out and cops out to an even greater sin: laziness. Screenwriters Wesley Strick and Eric Heisserer don't have total disdain for the material, they just don't care. And why should they? In this age of GOSSIP GIRL and TWILIGHT, these studios just bring in failed tween dramedy script-writers and give them a case of Monster energy drink and a stick of guyliner. The new ELM STREET feels like it was a recycled pilot for a CW project that was passed on and just had the words “Freddy Krueger” interchangeably replaced with the previous villain's name.

There's are no actual characters in this movie, just caricatures of how 40-year-olds think “cool” emo kids act. Everyone is interchangeably sullen, reacting with drama club pathos under the constantly flickering fluorescent lights, make-up girl on hand to make those cheekbones shallower and shallower. The two main “characters” are Quentin and Nancy, played by utterly charisma-less Kyle Gallner and Rooney...ugh...Mara.

Kyle Gallner is the rosebud-lipped mouth-rape baby offspring of Robert Pattinson, skin sickly-white and Joy Division shirt permanently in check, because, you know, he's a sensitive outsider. He skulks around, always on the verge of tears, threatening to burn a hole on the screen with a “no-one-gets-me” stammering intensity that gives fellow walking coagulation Jesse Eisenberg a run for his money.

And Nancy? Oh, Lord, sweet Nancy...what did they do to you?

Rooney...ugh...Mara's Nancy is no longer a strong, pretty, likable girl-next-door that you root for, but a raccoon-eyed sullen “artist” who sums up her own persona by saying, simply, “I don't fit in.” She's Rachael Leigh Cook in the first half-hour of SHE'S ALL THAT, with about half the life-threatening drama to make it all worthwhile. Rooney. Ugh.

Together on the screen...well, let's just say that the next time scientists discover a new black hole, I propose the name Gallner-Mara 2010-B. Their dialogue consists of entirely of finishing each other's
sentences:

“There's a man in my dreams with these...”

“...knives on his hand. I've seen him too!”

“That means we're both having the...”

“...same dream. But that's....”

“...impossible...I know!”

In-between all of this low-rent emoting, there are nightmares, of course. And, just so you know that you are in one and you don't have to waste precious time wallowing in suspense, every time a kid's eyelids shut, one second later, they are on the abandoned set of the “Smells Like Teen Spirit” video, complete with rusty walls and dolls with burnt faces. But that makes sense: the thing was directed by Samuel Bayer, an affected “artist” who has directed the same video multiple times for imbeciles like the Smashing Pumpkins, Marilyn Manson and, yes, Nirvana. Did Jonas Akurlund have a prior commitment? Was Mark Pellington out of town and missed the phone call?

The one saving grace of NIGHTMARE? That would be Jackie Earle Haley. After such creepy turns in LITTLE CHILDREN and WATCHMEN, he's the sociopath du jour and does a great job in making Freddy scary again. Too bad that every time he opens his mouth he has to dribble out the words of Strick and Heisserer, who feed him jokey asides that would even have Robert Englund asking for massive rewrites. And that's the guy who directed 976-EVIL. He obviously doesn't know better.

A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET is the cinematic equivalent of a hot summer afternoon's nap on a lumpy vinyl couch while flipping channels only to find that womens' golf is on. It's uncomfortable and boring and your sweaty thigh-skin will probably get a minor rash, but, hey, at least you caught a couple of sound Zs, right?

Welcome to nap-time, bitch.

NEW BIGFOOT PRINT ANTHOLOGY “MONDO SASQUATCH” CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS!

Bigfoot. Sasquatch. Skunkape. Whatever you call him, this cryptozoological American legend has entertained and befuddled us for generations. From grainy Zapruder-like film to family fare such as “Harry and the Hendersons”, the Bigfoot is an ingrained part of our culture. And, now, we're gonna tell the other side of his story...the further adventures of Bigfoot!

Conceived in a fever pitch this past Horrorhound Weekend, Louis Fowler, editor of DAMAGED 2.0 and Casey Criswell, editor of “Cinema Fromage”, are teaming up with Rod Lott at BOOKGASM for MONDO SASQUATCH: The Bigfoot Anthology, to be published under the new “BOOKGASM PRESENTS” banner. And, as with any anthology worth it's salt, we need quality writers wanting to tell their own version of the Sasquatch myth!

Think that you've got an unique story to tell? We want it! Anyone can do a typical Bigfoot-scares-teen-campers tale...we want something different. Stories can put the creature in anytime or anyplace or any situation, as long as it is entertaining! Think your story is too “B-movie”? Chances are we'll like it even better. Think your “take” is too insane? We want to read it!

Short story submissions need to be at least 1500 words, but feel free to go longer to tell the story that you need to. Additionally, flash fiction of at least 250 words will also be considered, but, please tell a story.

NO POETRY.

All submissions should be sent as a .doc file, in 12 point Times New Roman font. No crazy fonts, please. Number all pages and please include name, mailing address, phone number and e-mail address in the top left corner of the first page.

For work accepted, authors will receive a complimentary copy of the anthology in which their work appears.

We will be accepting submissions from now until AUGUST 15TH. Authors will be notified of acceptance shortly thereafter by email.

Send all submissions to damagedhearing@gmail.com with the subject “BIGFOOT SUBMISSION”.

Thanks, and we look forward to seeing your stuff!

LAST BUY: A breakup letter to my 20-year media paramour, Best Buy.

LAST BUY: A breakup letter to my 20-year media paramour, Best Buy.
By Louis Fowler

I still remember when Best Buy first came to Oklahoma City. It was the early-90s and my chubby middle school self was into British Invasion-era music pretty hardcore. My obsession with all things Beatles was reaching an embarrassing zenith, having just discovered that their Capitol releases, from album art to track-listings, were almost always different than that of their original UK Parlophone-released counterparts. I was scouring everywhere within my limited walking distance to find the recently released in America UK versions. It was adorably sad and, ultimately, sexually regressive. I would go throughout middle school with nary a squeeze of under-developed female titty.

Up until that point, most of my music purchases were made at the Target two blocks from my house, and they were of the cassette variety, having not fully saved up the $100 needed to purchase that CD stereo system I had my eye on in my dad's Fingerhut catalogs. And, while shopping at Target I discovered quite a few cool, seminal albums there, their selection was at best pathetic and always kinda pricey. I usually ended up sticking to “Nice Price” or “Pricebusters” tapes in the bin where they didn't even bother with those long plastic anti-theft devices. No one steals a “Nice Price” tape, right?

1992 comes around and the big buzz, at least among myself, is all about this new electronics store, Best Buy. Not only would they have smartly priced electronics, but apparently the lowest prices on cassettes, CDs and VHS tapes. And, good God Almighty, did they ever!

The first time I stepped in there, the week they opened, I believe, I felt like I was in my own personal wonderland. (Okay, I was 12 or 13—what did I know about real record stores? Cut me a break, jerk!) They had aisles of reasonably priced cassettes and, HOLY CRAP! They had the Beatles! They had their stuff on Parlophone! I had enough money to buy two tapes—REVOLVER and BEATLES FOR SALE! On cassette! My life as a consumer had changed forever, teaching me what the word “loyalty” is all about.

From that point on, I was a LOYAL customer. Every week, I would walk from NW 47th to NW 59th, I believe, across the busy expressway and underpasses, past the frontage roads and empty parking lots, often with my younger brother in tow. We'd trek up there most Sunday afternoons, spending hours looking around, even if we left with only a purchase of a Crystal Pepsi. Man, when I think of all the tapes I bought in that time period...tapes I still own somewhere around here: Bob Dylan-AS GOOD AS I BEEN TO YOU, Tom Petty-FULL MOON FEVER, Mick Jagger-WANDERING SPIRIT and, um, Sting-TEN SUMMONER'S TALES... Needless to say, everytime I got some cash, I'd buy a new tape from there. My CD player would be held off for another summer.

As I got older though, I began to explore past my neighborhood more often. I soon discovered records stores like the (sadly) defunct Sound Warehouse and CD Warehouse, and the more indie ones on OKC like Music Dimensions. Whenever there was a hard-to-find CD that was made to sound intriguing in trendy slacker-mags like PULSE, HUH? or RAYGUN, those would be the places I would go to first. The indies. They'd always have that stuff. But, if it was a new release that I knew EVERYONE and their adoptive mother would carry, and I wanted it at a low price, Best Buy was my first and only stop.

This LOYAL fandom of Best Buy has continued with me for a little under twenty years now. Twenty. Years. For two decades I have given this corporation my hard-earned and bitterly won money on a regular, damn-near weekly basis. I would meet up with friends there on Tuesdays for new release day. I would get up early on Sunday to be the first to see the circular and, then first in line to take advantage of the sales. It was my Black Friday camp-out store of choice. And, whenever anybody was going to get me a gift, I would ask them to just take me to Best Buy and let me go wild. I was that simple to please.

The past few years for the media collector slash obsessive have been especially sweet, as most Best Buys had a Circuit City right down the street from them and the two would routinely duel it out for entertainment supremacy, offering all types of deals, markdowns and exclusives. Best Buy had the real advantage though: if ever Circuit City did get the drop on them, BB had a brutally overpowering price-match guarantee. There was almost no reason to really ever step foot in Circuit City, except to plunder their corpse as the fetid store lay dying and foreclosed upon in their final days.

(For more on this boot-stealing of the dead, read “Circuit Breaker: The Final Days of Circuit City”.)

Because I felt like I had this personal connection with Best Buy, I turned a deaf-ear on all those cynics who decried that BB would change everything I loved about them now that they had no real competition. No way. They'd never do that to a LOYAL customer. Just take a look at my Reward Zone card, guys! BB will take care of me, nurture me and pat my bottom with baby powder whenever I got a little rash.

So...what's got two thumbs and believed that a corporation actually gave a damn about them like a total moron? ^ THIS GUY. ^

Like everything that I've ever loved in my life, Best Buy did change, and not for the better. Quite the opposite, actually. They started to raise their prices. Started to have less media sales. Started carrying less product. Started getting smug: “We know you got no other place to go, fat boy! You got no choice but to pay $29.99 for a Blu-Ray of STAR TREK! HAHAHAHAHAHA!” * crushes kitten's head *

I started going to their store less and less. Once a week turned into once every couple of weeks, then once a month, then only whenever a sale caught my eye. They changed their whole Reward Zone program. I'd either never get my $5 certificate in the mail or I'd look at my balance and see all my points gone. Points weren't rolling over anymore. Even worse, when I'd ask an employee about it, they not only didn't know...they didn't care. No one cared. My LOYALTY wasn't worth even a measly $5 certificate. And when you ain't worth five dollars, you ain't worth shit, son.

This finally came to a head the past week when, after a couple of movies I wanted that were listed as being available in the store on their website, weren't in stock. OK, fine. I'll just ask them to do one of those store-pickups that the kids talk so much about. It was more trouble than it was worth. A simple ask of whether or not I could have a couple of DVDs ordered and sent to the store for pick-up became a huge, embarrassing mess, quagmired in one roll of red tape after another. After ten or fifteen minutes of one employee after another staring blankly at a computer...I gave up. I was done. I said “Look, I appreciate the help, but I'll just get it off Amazon. Thanks though.”

And I walked through those electric-eye double-doors for the very last time.

I know exactly what my problem is: when I find a product or business I like, I'm too LOYAL. I'm a consumer wet-dream. But, now, they have to wake up and realize their pants are all sticky and need to hide them on the bottom of the hamper so mom doesn't find them. Loyalty isn't rewarded anymore, it's expected! No one cares about you and your purchase power! Get in line and buy, buy, buy, don't ask any questions!

Best Buy, we had a great run. But you're like the ex-girlfriend who I've lavished expensive gifts on, clearing out my bank account just to get one sweet drop of your sweet sweetness of, only to have you break up with me when a bigger, better deal comes along. You're a lying, cheating, manipulative bitch and I hope to compose a twelve-song album full of biting Elvis Costello-lite lyrics about the whole situation.

It's funny: more and more people that I talk to about Best Buy are feeling the exact same way. Most don't even bother going into stores anymore, not with Amazon.com right at their fingertips! And I don't blame them. I mean, if you are going to deal with cold, impersonal, robotic service, it might as well be with your own computer. And you might as well get the lowest price. And you might as well get it shipped to your house, no questions asked.

In this climate, businesses are failing left and right. You'd think that, because of that intense fear of losing everything they've ever worked for, stores like Best Buy would try harder to beat down the Internet behemoths that are quietly flaying them. You'd think they would try to offer that personal touch. You'd think...well, you'd think they'd value your LOYALTY.

So that takes me right back to the beginning. I've been wanting these new Beatles remasters for a while now. Keeping my eye out for a great price on the whole set. Amazon's got the complete Beatles stereo box set for $179.98, marked down from $258.98. And with free shipping. On the Amazon Marketplace, however, it's even cheaper at $130.00. Sorry, but to me, that's not just a better buy, that's the real best buy.