INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL: Bloggers are raping my adulthood.

INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL
Starring Harrison Ford, Karen Allen, Shia LeBeouf
Directed by Steven Spielberg
Paramount Pictures
Review by Louis Fowler

You should be on the look out. No, seriously. Look over your shoulder. Do you see it yet?

It’s the fanboy blogger. You know, the one that hates everything. The one who repeated says “George Lucas raped my childhood.” The one who will complain that comic adaptations that don’t stick to the book suck, find it hard to believe that Buffy doesn’t want to fuck them and, worst of all, have no mind of their own, preferring a hive collective mentality wherein if one of them says it sucks, then they all gotta say it sucks. It’s an Ain’t It Cool world, ain’t it?

Well, here’s the truth: INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL is about as perfect as a movie can get. Yeah, yeah—I’ve read all the online reviews. The ones that say it is merely “floating by on nostalgia”, is “uninspired, unbelievable and unnecessary” or, the one that’s becoming my favorite, that it “doesn’t feel like an Indiana Jones movie.”

Look, fellas: it’s been nineteen years. Times have changed. Much like when you took the massive dump on the STAR WARS prequels, you’re no longer a ten-year-old boy sitting in the movie theater. Yet, you still hold on to that intense feeling that you are and that this film is supposed to made to suit who and what you are today. And it’s not going to be. Ever. So, in that case, you will never be happy. Did you expect George Lucas to call you up and ask you directly what you wanted in an Indiana Jones movie? Oh… you did. No wonder you’re so pissed!!!

And much like that time that passed since you last saw Indiana Jones in THE LAST CRUSADE, everyone is older and, suitably enough, more mature. The thing that makes CRYSTAL SKULL work so well is that there is no attempt to ignore that fact. In a fact that I’m sure is also probably lost on the fanboys, Spielberg and company have even updated the feel of the film from the 1940s serials of the earlier ones to a spectacularly awesome late 50s sci-fi B-movie setting, filled with insane escapes and over the top action pieces. It has taken the three previous films and amped them up, never once letting up or becoming boring. I love the fact that Indy escapes an A-bomb explosion via a refrigerator. I love the chase scene at Indy’s college. And you know what? I even love the whole Tarzan sequence.

Sorry to be the barer of bad news, but this movie is not meant to be believable. It is not meant to be a structured study on the customs and rituals of the Akator people. It is meant to be fun! It is meant to be one thrill after another! It is meant to fully entertain you for two hours! And this is the thing that gets me: it does! It does in spades! It set out to give you something to cheer for. It set out to give you a likable hero you want to win. Have we become so jaded that we have to break down every single aspect of a film like this because you feel like it gives you some sort of identity? I’m sorry, but I refuse to jump on this bandwagon with you. I loved INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL as much as I can love a film. It is a perfect successor to the previous three and, with the acknowledgement of the mythos at work, I sincerely hope it doesn’t take another nineteen years from that bullwhip and fedora to make another appearance.

Harrison Ford is just as good as he ever was, still with that same smart smirk and knowing crow’s feet to match. Karen Allen makes a wholly welcome return, still displaying that spunk that made her the most likable of Indy’s gals, and, sweet Jesus, I can’t believe I am saying this, but I really, really, really liked Shia LeBeouf as Mutt, Jones’s son. (Oops—spoiler.) The chemistry between him and Ford is undeniable and I wouldn’t be adverse in the slightest if he appears in the (fingers crossed) next sequel. As for the villains, Cate Blanchett and a cadre of Russians replace the Nazis to great effect, with her Spalko character becoming more of a mental adversary than a physical one. It worked.

Finally, I’ve seen all the jokes over the past few months about Harrison Ford’s age—-who can forget the classic INDIANA JONES AND THE RETIREMENT HOME OF DOOM jokes clever posters feel the need to repeat over and over again, as if they are going to get funnier the 589th time you hear it? Sorry, but I am completely happy that older action heroes, like Ford and, earlier this year, Sylvester Stallone in RAMBO, are coming out of retirement to show this current crop of wispy man-girl action “stars” like Paul Walker and the like how to act like a real action hero. You shoot the bad guys, you take your lumps and, most importantly, you don’t fucking break down crying in the arms of your leading lady because daddy didn't love you. You act like a fucking man.

INDIANA JONES AND THE KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL is the Indiana Jones film I have been dying to see since walking out of LAST CRUSADE in 1989 and it was definitely worth the wait. If the final scene is any indication, there is more than enough life left in this series.

I know, I know. Sorry, fanboy hive. But don’t worry—THE DARK KNIGHT will be out in a few weeks. I’m sure there is gonna be something for you to hate there too.

The DAMAGED 2.0 band name generator for 05.23.08!!!

It can be tough to be a rocker—-learning your instrument, finding other members, procuring roofies and, worst of all, naming the band. Let me help you! According to SiteMeter.com, every week people find their way to DAMAGED 2.0 through a variety of search words, most of which have nothing to do with me, but are still awesome in their sheer perversity. So, the next time you need a band name, feel free to choose from this list—-just make sure to give me some credit in the liner notes!

1. Doomsday Girls
2. Rob Liefeld's Captain America
3. Pimped Out Motorbike
4. Cop Fuck DVD
5. Pics of Weird Vaginas
6. Nerd Sells His Soul to the Devil to Be a Hunk
7. Damaged Vagina
8. McRib Tuesday
9. 9/11 Fonz
10. Rockers is Satanism

LOCH NESS TERROR: Dad, put that egg down. You're being an ass.

LOCH NESS TERROR
Starring Brian Krause, Niall Matter, Carrie Genzel
Directed by Paul Ziller
Sony Pictures Home Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

What would be the most traumatic way to watch your father die? Frail and cancer-ridden in a dingy nursing home? Shot by Crips initiating a new member in a “wrong-place/wrong-time” convenience store robbery? Decapitated by Islamic fundamentalist terrorists in a video posted on YouTube?

As bad as all those things are—and they are all bad—the movie LOCH NESS TERROR thinks that the worst way would be to see dad chomped to death by an angry Loch Ness Monster whilst trying to steal her eggs. And while many would say that’s what dad gets for trying to steal the eggs of a rare aquatic prehistoric creature, this is lost on young James Murphy, who grows up to be a freelance cryptozoologist that dresses like Roland from Stephen King’s THE GUNSLINGER, right down to the ground-length leather duster. James, played ironically enough by Brian Krause who’s only other notable thing was STEPHEN KING’S SLEEPWALKERS, dedicates his entire life to hunting down the monster, who has turned up in, of all places, a small town on Lake Superior (presumably the Canadian side, for budgetary purposes).

How did a Loch Ness Monster get all the way from Scotland to Canada? Why, underground tunnels, of course! (Pure. Fucking. Genius!)

The local law enforcement, per usual, believe that all the body parts, headless corpses and decaying beached sea-creatures are the work of a large animal like a bear, constantly ignoring James when he’s trying to tell them that it’s ol’ Nessie. Luckily, one kid who runs a lake tours business believes him and together they track down the monster using the latest in simulated PowerPoint-style computer graphics superimposed on a monitor. But badly rendered sonar isn’t gonna bring the beast down, so they are also armed to the gills with mega-machine guns filled with cyanide-tipped bullets and lung-frying microwave-emitting EMP blasters. If that isn’t the ultimate fuck you to dinosaurs, I don’t know what is.

Eventually, the police (the sheriff is the boat-renting kid’s mom, so that helps) decide that maybe James isn’t full of plesiosaur shit, so they team up with him and the kid to rescue a group of spoiled rich kids (including a foreign exchange student who starts every sentence with “How you say?”) off an island which, awesomely enough, is inhabited by lots o’ baby Nessies, all hungry and all wanting to feast on humans. Cue EMP blasters!

Much like a cuddly little baby sea monster, it is impossible to not want to hold and squeeze and gently kiss LOCH NESS TERROR on its slimy little forehead. It is fun (of course) and well paced, wasting no time in getting to the head-squishing action. As a matter of fact, for a Sci-Fi Channel movie, this is surprisingly gory, with human guts and exploding Nessie heads abound. The monsters themselves are a mixture of CGI and, adorably enough, little nipping hand-puppets that deserve their own kids show. Even Brian Krause, who I forgot to mention was also a regular on CHARMED (a show I never watched but have masturbated to numerous times), is, for such a supposedly dark and brooding character in a face-obscuring hat and long brown leather coat, a cheerful, happy-go-lucky cryptozoologist that, thankfully, never lets his traumatic childhood get him down. No pussy psychiatric counseling for this anti-hero!

Once again, Sci-Fi delivers the goods, with LOCH NESS TERROR providing solid entertainment in a way that even the biggest blockbusters can’t deliver. At the very least, my dad, who died at the hands of an enraged Sasquatch, would have loved it, I’m sure.

The DAMAGED Hearing Playlist for 05.20.08

* denotes selections from this week's featured artist/album: 24 HOUR PARTY PEOPLE - ORIGINAL SOUNDTRACK
** denotes listener request

Irene Cara-"Fame"
Happy Mondays-"24 Hour Party People" *
Glen Campbell-"Rhinestone Cowboy (Pilchard Remix)"
Madonna-"Like a Prayer" **
Joy Division-"Transmission" *
New Order-"Temptation" *
Village People-"Sodom and Gomorrah"
Cheekyboys-"Baby Got Silly Love Songs (Sir Mix-a-Lot vs. Wings)"
Mika-"Big Girl (You Are Beautiful)"
DJ Topcat-"The Safety Booty (Bubba Sparxx vs. Men Without Hats)"
Gorillaz-"Dare"
Party Ben-"Never Feel Good (Gorillaz vs. Cake)"
Krazy Dogggz-"The Doggie Bounce"
Happy Mondays-"Loose Fit" *
Sex Pistols-"Anarchy in the UK" *
Cheech and Chong-"Earache My Eye"
Ted Nugent-"Stand"
MC Lars-"Signing Emo"
Buzzcocks-"Ever Fallen in Love" *
George Michael-"Careless Whisper" **
Another Bad Creation-"Iesha"
Color Me Badd-"All 4 Love"
Wham-"Last Christmas" **
New Order-"Blue Monday" *
Happy Mondays-"Hallelujah (Club Mix)" *

Rob Liefeld is the Worst Comic Artist of All-Time #2

Rob Liefeld is the Worst Comic Artist of All-Time #1

The DAMAGED 2.0 band name generator for 05.18.08!!!

It can be tough to be a rocker—-learning your instrument, finding other members, procuring roofies and, worst of all, naming the band. Let me help you! According to SiteMeter.com, every week people find their way to DAMAGED 2.0 through a variety of search words, most of which have nothing to do with me, but are still awesome in their sheer perversity. So, the next time you need a band name, feel free to choose from this list—-just make sure to give me some credit in the liner notes!

1. Old School Fat Rapper
2. Caligula Sex Video
3. McRib Santa
4. Doomsday Jeans
5. Hippies in Fort Collins
6. Danielle Harris's Feet
7. Let's Go Take Off Your Clothes, Rise of the Silver Surfer
8. Meth Mindfuck
9. Mainstream Comic Book Torture
10. Demon Wayans

DAMAGED Fiction: SS HIPPIE DEATH CAMP 1974 - Part 5!!!

SS HIPPIE DEATH CAMP 1974: A STORY OF FREE LOVE AND FREE TERROR
By Louis Fowler

CHAPTER FIVE: THE FALL OF THE FOURTH REICH

Sunbow had left a trail of bodies—all Nazi guards—in her wake. She had noticed that these...things...were not normal. They had the build and body of a man, but their faces...they were blank. Literally blank. She had never seen anything like it.

But Mengele had. He was the one who created them. Clones. The discovery of replicating DNA had been one of his greatest discoveries, but, there were always…ahem, problems. Deformities. Living stillbirths. Hideous creatures. With one failed mess after another, he had realized that although they lacked faces (if you looked close enough, you could see a tiny slit of a mouth, upon which a small straw could be inserted, providing the clones with a thin, gelatinous protein mixture that kept them alive), they were mindless footmen who could carry out orders without question. If only they had had them back in the glory days, Mengele always thought as he gazed upon their sightless visages.

But now, they were slowly, unbeknownst to him, being murdered one by one by the now pacifist-eschewing Sunbow Moonshadow.

As she pulled another syringe out of the non-face of the faceless Nazi soldier, she finally remembered her name: Cynthia. Cynthia Wrightson. Cindy. A new viciousness emanated from her eyes. Her face, blackened with blood, her hair matted with grue, she was no longer the flower-child that would give up her body to anyone who wandered into her tent with a joint. She was now a pure, unadulterated killing machine. She was a walking nightmare and was determined to show, whoever did this, the true meaning of pain.

It was the first thing to bring a smile to her face in the last couple of weeks.

***

Mengele had just finished shaving Hitler’s head and was currently making marks with a black pen, a dotted line. This was, presumably, the outline of where a surgeon would make an incision. Hitler, glassy eyed, stared up at the ceiling. Next to him, an empty vial of Sublimaze. A used needle lied beside it.
Hitler was trying, in his deteriorating brain, to figure out what was going on…even though Mengele had explained it numerous times.

“Mien Herr…once I have placed your brain into this body, you can live again! You can reign once more, and I will be by your side, mien love!”

On the table next to Hitler, lay a body. A fresh body. It was obviously one of the members of the group that Cindy had been a part of. And, even though a huge hollow cavity in the back of his skull was dripping, making a puddle on the floor beneath him, his chest continued to breathe in and out. This was due to the fifty or so electrodes that were stuck into the main nerve endings of the body, sending electrical charges to the body, keeping it alive, but just barely. Mengele needed to perform this operation, and quick.

Hitler’s eyes closed tightly as Mengele took his rusty scalpel and inserted it into the outlined scalp. Mengele slowly began to cut along the marked pattern, a trickle of blood flowing as the skin spread apart, separating.

A door slammed.

Mengele pulled the scalpel back, frightened and surprised. He turned to look, but, as he did, there was Cindy standing in front of him, a fistful of syringes, clutched tightly. Mengele, caught off guard, slipped on the blood that had spread over the ground, falling backwards. In a desperate attempt to catch himself, he had grabbed a hold of the flapping skin that had been cut loose from Hitler’s scalp. The force of the fall, with Hitler tied down tightly, caused Mengele to rip Hitler’s scalp clean off.

There, Hitler lay, warbling, gurgling and unintelligibly mumbling, his body numb to the pain.

Cindy straddled the diseased body of Mengele. She recognized the scent—he was the scum that had licked her when she was tied down, helpless. Cindy brought her face closer to Mengele’s. She lurched her tongue forward and proceeded to lick Mengele’s face, from lower jaw to forehead. Mengele cowered.

“Time to die, Untermensch…” In her hand she clenched five syringes, all filled to the brim with Sublimaze. She lifted her arm up in salute. “Sieg heil, motherfucker!”

With all the force in her newfound mind frame, she slammed the needles deep into the eyes of Mengele and pushed down, the liquid death seeping and absorbing, spurting and working. He shook violently for a moment, almost knocking Cindy off of him. But she held firmly onto the syringes, moving them in deep circles in his eye sockets, making sure that he was dead, once and for all.

She slowly stood up and looked at the desecrated hatemonger, feeble and pathetic as his beliefs, slowly dying in front of her. She knew that death was too good for this living embodiment of evil. She knew that it would be best to let him live and be exposed to the world. It would be the only true form of justice.

Then she came to her senses.

Cindy reached for the bone saw that sat on the instrument table next to the gurney. She effortlessly flicked the surgical tool on, and, with the artistry of a symphony conductor, waved the razor-sharp saw all about, hurdy-gurdy, tearing the flesh of Adolf Hitler to shreds. He never scram once.

Showers and sprays of blood (pure blood, right asshole?) covered Cindy to the point of being drenched. But she didn’t care. She was baptized in the flesh of rage. She had been washed in the blood of decency. She had been reborn in the fires of revenge. No longer could Cindy go back to whom she was—the hippie whore that wanted to die.

Cindy wanted to live for the first time in five years.

***

EPILOGUE: Cindy eventually escaped to the American embassy and was promptly flown to Walter Reed Hospital for observations. Upon recovery, she was briefed and debriefed repeatedly by Army Intelligence, the CIA and the NSA. She told them everything she knew.

A Black Ops Team, on a search and destroy mission, following Cindy’s directions, found the covert Nazi base, partially destroyed by fire.

The bodies of Hitler and Mengele were never recovered.

The current whereabouts of Cynthia Wrightson are unknown.

DAMAGED Fiction: SS HIPPIE DEATH CAMP 1974 - Part 4!!!

SS HIPPIE DEATH CAMP 1974: A STORY OF FREE LOVE AND FREE TERROR
By Louis Fowler

CHAPTER FOUR: AN AFTERTASTE FOR THE AFTERLIFE

Sunbow’s face was stuck to the dirty concrete floor.

She had fallen asleep—passed out, more like it—in her now-deceased boyfriend’s innards. The blood and whatnot had coagulated with her face in them, causing her skin to painfully stretch when she wiggled her head out of the grue, like ripping duct tape off of a captive’s bare lips.

In the moment of extreme panic that had led to her concurrent daze, she had failed to originally notice that, in her fall, the strap that held her down had unraveled just enough—not much, but enough—for her to pull he left arm out. The only problem, for her to do it successfully, she would have to dislocate her shoulder.

This would not be a problem, as when she landed, she had luckily landed on that arm. The shoulder’s ball joint was visible from her shoulder. Knowing the extreme pain that was about to come, she bit down tightly on a random organ—probably an intestine of some sort—as she mustered every bit of strength to pull her arm out of the tie-down. Her shoulder cracked and popped while streams of gore spurted out of the gut as she bit down, trying to suppress her extreme pain.

Success!

With one arm out, like a caterpillar emerging from a cocoon, she slowly inched upwards and out of the tresses, putting all her weight on the now massively swollen shoulder, which had begun to turn black and brown. It was actually very easy to slide out of the metal slab, as the leftover, slick remains that had not yet fully coagulated acted as a lube of sorts, like a grotesque Slip-N-Slide you’d find at a toy store in Hell.

Once out, Sunbow tried to stand, but the pain in her shoulder was almost too much to bear…“Please God…” she silently prayed, “PleaseGodgetmeoutofhereIpromiseI’llchangemylifeifyougetmeoutofhere…please…Daddy….”

As tears slowly fell down her face, she ultimately realized that with a dislocated shoulder, there was no way she was going to get far. This had happened before, once, while she was at camp, whilst being bucked off a rather rapacious horse. Her training instructor popped the joint back him with a little bit of force. It hurt like Hell, but it sure beat going to a hospital, she thought even then.

But there was no instructor there now.

Instead, she ran, full speed, into a brick wall, shoulder first. The force threw her back a few feet and the torture was almost comically unholy—but Goddammit, she thought, it worked. It really worked. Her shoulder was back in it’s socket and, yes, it was sore and swelling to the size of a grapefruit, but she had did it.

She stood up and finally, for the first time, got a good look at her surroundings. Sunbow realized that she was in a makeshift morgue, filled with open-faced bodies, much like what had become of sweet Diggit. There were no to-tags, no body bags, just soiled linen sheets barely covering up the nude death that engulfed her. She breathed in the horror, puking a little more bile all over her chest. It was unnoticeable, what with all the dried dark blood. In the far back of the room, she noticed a cabinet that was filled with vials.

“PainkillerspleasesweetJesuspainkillerspleaseplease…”
She could not believe her eyes. Sublimaze…it was a painkiller, more potent that morphine, typically used in surgeries that were usually extremely painful. A little goes a long way. Too much, and she’d become a vegetable—a drooling mess. This ain’t the place to do that. She measured a tiny bit into a syringe…every so slightly…and injected it directly into the swelling joint.

It was such a pleasurable rush that she almost could feel her panties get a bit damp.

Sunbow, pain-free, grabbed a handful of vials, a few syringes and stuffed them into every available pocket. She crept to the metal door and poked her head outside…a young guard, blond and…faceless? The drug, completely taken over, freed her from all fear. She plunged a syringe full of the opiate into the soldier’s neck. Stunned, before he could react, he fell to the ground.

Sunbow took his uniform, a callus Nazi throwback, and put it on. She filled the pockets with more pre-filled syringes. Fuck all that peace and live shit.

If only Daddy could see his little girl now.

DAMAGED Fiction: SS HIPPIE DEATH CAMP 1974 - Part 3!!!

SS HIPPIE DEATH CAMP 1974: A STORY OF FREE LOVE AND FREE TERROR
By Louis Fowler

CHAPTER THREE: DER HAUS UND PAIN

Hitler sat on his throne, pensively staring off into space. His black, well-coiffed locks were now whiter than the Master Race he loved so much and his old, withered skin hung off of his face. Even his trademark moustache had faded, now looking more like a faded milk moustache than anything else. On anyone else, it would have been endearing.

He was an elderly man, pushing 95. He was going to die soon, and he knew it. Everyday he became less mobile, and everyday, a new part of him seemed to need to be replaced. After escaping Allied-occupied Germany, he had made his way to Bolivia, but it had not been without incident. Luckily, he also managed to bring along his right hand man, a certain Dr. Mengele.

Unbeknownst to the general populace of the world, Dr. Mengele, while an insane madman, was also a medical genius. Using his studies in the experimental camps of the SS, Mengele had created a process that was able to regenerate dead cells, bringing life back where it was formerly extinguished. This was the only thing that kept Hitler alive all these years. Or so that’s what he believed.

And while he was able to reanimate dead tissue and organs—for example, when Hitler had broken his hip, he used his experimental serum to reset the bone, creating new cells that fused the break—he was unable to literally bring a dead being back to life. It was his life’s goal, to conquer death the way they had conquered Europe. No matter how many bodies it took, he knew that he would break the curse that is death!

But Hitler was dying. He sat on his throne most days, emotionless, glassy-eyed. Where was the young, fiery Hitler that was filled with insane vigor? Where was that Hitler? Where was the Hitler that Mengele had fallen in love with? Mengele had to face facts: soon, he was going to be alone in the world. Where would he go? What would he do? Probably just die himself. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t face a world without Hitler. He was…scared. Yes, that was it. Scared.

Hitler slumped over in his throne, a stream of urine running down his pant leg. Mengele ran over and propped him back up, patting Hitler’s pants dry with the sleeve of his shirt. Hitler rested his chin on Mengele’s shoulder and started to whimper….whimper louder…he stared to cry.

The tears spotted Mengele’s shirt with their dampness, but he didn’t care. He grabbed the old man by the arms and straightened him up. He took his arm-sleeve and wiped Hitler’s tears off his gnarled face. Mengele pressed his lips against Hitler’s and, gently tasting the salty tears that contoured, he looked in his eyes…

“I swear, Mien Fuhrer…I will save you. You will live again…”