DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Dream a Little (Cream) Dream!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Dream a Little (Cream) Dream!
By Louis Fowler

There were plenty of celebrities at Horrorhound Weekend. Many whose work I have loved for so many years: the leathery and grumpy gramps that is John Saxon; the still-boobtacular Adrienne Barbeau; the “must've ate some bad food and is feeling sick, wink” Jason Mewes; that one really fat guy who thinks he can pull off a Freddy costume...they were all there. And as much as I'd like to meet them all, to do so at a convention just feels so, well, informal. Professional. Impersonal.

But none of that matters to Corey Haim.

No, Mr. Haim, in his blissfully tragic way, made sure that everyone knew he was there and that his presence was to be felt by all who dared to stand in his path. From “losing” his wallet to bumming smokes, Corey was the most personable celebrity there, and, in a way, became a legend among those that remembered him, gaining a whole new fan-base among the HHW crowd.

Hell, I have a whole new respect for him. I am now, dare I say, a fan again?

As we were all hanging around the lobby bar at the Horrorhound after hours party, we noticed that Corey kept zipping around the room, as if he was looking for something. I think that something was attention.

As people talked to him, he gave off the vibe that he was in a “hurry”, but obviously craved the love and adoration he was getting. Sure, he was being cool and aloof in that indomitable Corey Haim way that we all know and love, but he was eating the scene up. And, in a moment of ballsiness, it was during these lobby zig-zaggings that I was able to get a quick word and picture. He put his arm around me and I shivered. Yes, the star of PRAYER OF THE ROLLERBOYS was buddying up to me.

I made a little more small-talk, he said something unintelligible and went back to his mission to find whatever it was he was looking for. I was happy enough to get a few moments, sure, but it was not more than ten minutes later when word was passing through that, in the atrium area, G. Tom Mac, the dude who sang “Cry Little Sister” from THE LOST BOYS, that one guy who played the little vampire kid in THE LOST BOYS and Corey Haim were doing an impromptu “unplugged” set. Let that sink in: impromptu unplugged set. To me, that was like someone saying “Hey Lou—Corey Feldman and Michael Damien are in the lobby reciting scenes from EQUUS!” It was, needless to say, a dream come true.

When we got there, they were doing the aforementioned “Cry Little Sister”...for the third time. (And, as soon as that was over, Mac played the song again, this time with the intro that this is how the song is “really supposed to sound”.)

You'd think that hearing “Cry Little Sister” for the third or fourth time, that it would lose its impact and get boring, but you'd be wrong. You're also eating maggots, Michael. We were all singing the children's chorus of the “Thou nots...” and whatnot. This was followed by Haim's performance of the Doors' “People Are Strange” which, if you ask me, outshone the original. And, as fun as that was, it was nothing compared to what happened next...

In my life, I have seen the grandiose emotional concerts of U2 three times. I have had Iggy Pop use me as a crutch to get lifted into a crowd, with his shoe kicking me in the face. I have been in a bar, watching Jonathan Richman with only five other people. I have seen small children play the music of AC/DC. When it comes to music, I. Have. Seen. Some. Shit. Man.

But the greatest feat of music, live or recorded, that I have ever witnessed was Corey Haim busting out the freestyle raps. As Mac played a “funky” riff on his guitar, Corey spit flows about being a “funky white boy” like he was pre-Death's door ODB, and bitch, you better have his money! I think that he might have even worked in a plea for Middle East Peace in his rhymes, I do believe, which I respect. That was socially conscious and it had a great rhyme scheme.

As his rap started to peter out, I knew that I had to keep it going. I didn't want this to end. Ever. I cupped my hands to my mouth, megaphone style and started the chant: “When I say Corey, you say Haim!”

And the crowd responded, en masse and in ecstasy.

“When I say Corey, you say Haim! Corey..”

“HAIM!”

“Corey!”

“HAIM!”

The look on Corey's face was...well, it was the face of an accomplished man. His face, tired and filled with only the memories of glories past, returned to its youthful state, as a smile beamed across his face. Corey knew that he had rocked us. Corey knew that he had rolled us.

Here's the video from the performance...



As we were leaving, Corey was happily taking pictures, flashing the peace sign and basking in the afterglow. “I want to take pictures, but I need everyone to step ten feet back!” was the last thing I heard him say. The old superstar Corey was back and we were merely lucky enough to be allowed to bask in his luminescence.

I sometimes wonder if Corey knows how much he entertained us that night. I wonder if Corey knows how much more memorable he made an already memorable weekend. I look up at the moon and wonder if Corey is looking at it too, that sense of accomplishment holding steadfast in his heart as he preps for his next big movie, CRANK 2: HIGH VOLTAGE, which, coincidentally, opens lat week.

Please God, let him be on the soundtrack...

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Soured Puss!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Soured Puss!
by Louis Fowler


I have never really enjoyed alcoholic beverages. Never. Even beer. Just don't like 'em.

Oh, when my friends were around, I’d be the “big man” and fill a Dixie with vodka and chug it down, acting like it was nothing, when, deep inside, I’m in such searing pain that it takes everything to not vomit my blueberry pie, STAND BY ME-style. And even then usually failing. But real men can handle real liquor, right Chris Holmes from W.A.S.P.?

After spending hundreds of dollars on replacing the rugs of many friends from my oral soilments, I had to face it: I just don’t like the taste of hard liquor. I can't handle the tastes of most liquors, hard or soft, actually. Just writing about them and thinking about, right now as you read this, is making my stomach churn. I'm breathing heavily over the trash can under my desk, just in case. Gasp and swoon, I got the vapors!

Beers are bitter and go through me fast—I don't buy them, I rent them, HAHAHAHAHAFART. Over the course of two or three bottles, I'll urinate enough to fill up another pitcher. And, to top it off, the only beers I can really handle are the cheapest, most watered-down lagers. The Pabsts, the Natural Lights, the Milwaukee's Bests...but I'll be damned if I drink those in public. The ultra-ironic hipster-douchebag contingency have co-opted those for their “Hey, look how poor and working class and I love rockabilly!” jollies, so me ordering them is completely out of the question. And, unless a dirty bomb goes off at Coachella wiping out their vast numbers, I really don't see me ever drinking them ever again. Thanks, trucker hats!

And shots...let's not even get started on those. Everything from Patron to SoCo and back to Jaeger, as I previously mentioned, leave me shaking uncontrollably and retching violently, sweating profusely and lightly foaming. Plus, don't take this the wrong way—OK, do—really only whores do shots. So that's out also.

And champagne, well, I get no kick from champagne.

I have always envied women when it comes to alcohol...well, let me rephrase that: I have envied women's ability (or is it privilege?) to be able to drink fruity, syrupy drinks without shame. Everything else, they can keep. Like periods.

I have always wanted to be able to go up to the bartender and order something watermelon-flavored, but the cat-calls of “Fag!” from the collective peanut gallery made up of my macho male-friends was just too much deal with. It was too embarrassing, especially when you're a single dude. Single dudes can't be seen with a bright blue concoction in a brandy snifter!

But, what I eventually figured out was that, under the cover of comedy—hey, Louis is a wacky guy!—the only beverages I have ever found passable were…sigh…wine coolers, Boone’s Farm (Mountain Berry, please!) and Zima. It became a running gag that I was only happy to trot along with. Show up with some Bartles and Jaymes at a party, play it off as a joke and enjoy a nice little buzz.

“Hey guys! Hahaha, look, wine-coolers! Get it! Because that's so unlike something a kick-ass dude like me would drink! Party on! Kick out the jams! Remember the Alamo!”

But, when that option isn't available, there you are, nursing a nasty local micro-brewed lager, forced to stand-by and watch the lame chicks down the drinks that you secretly wanted. And they're doing it happily. I wanted that Fuzzy Navel, you bitch!

I hosted trivia for over a year or so for a while there. Even though I got a free bar tab, I usually would only have a soda. A tired, lame soda. A flat, bar soda. As my co-hosts downed free brews and the like, I chugged soda after soda just to catch some sort of manic caffeine buzz that never came.

And then I met sweet lady Midori Sour.

True, I saw some drunk sorority chick order it first, but when the bartender dropped that cherry into the neon green, Hi-C Ecto-Cooler looking concoction, I was more than intrigued—I was downright entranced. What could it hurt, I thought.

I ordered up one and my God...it was magnificent. It was so tangy and sweet and sour and fruity. And finally, when you finish it, you got yourself a little treat in the form of a zingy little cherry. It’s like Xmas all over again. It's like rediscovering that joy you once had a child, a joy that has been extinguished violently by years of jobs, bills and ACCORDING TO JIM.

But, of course, that joy was short-lived. The barbs. The taunts. The accusations that I enjoy having anal intercourse with other men. All because I partook in this tasty beverage. It almost made me swear it off...almost.

Something happened to me last year. I turned 30. And, when I turned 30, that little switch in my head, the one that made me give two shits about what people thought flicked off. Everyone has that switch—it's the one that tells you it's okay to wear Crocs with socks in the summertime. And my switch was all about what I drink. I decided that no longer should I be beholden to what some asshole thinks is socially acceptable for me to imbibe upon.

And as far as the gay thing...seriously, is that the best people can do? Determine someone's sexuality over an alcoholic beverage? And, even worse, why is being thought of as “gay” such an insult anyway? In retrospect, all of my favorite directors and singers are gay, so why wouldn't I want to drink what they drink? It's what sells you meat-head fucks Gatorade, right? Call me gay, give me a rainbow flag and put my ass in a parade; in one hand I'll proudly have my cock and in the other, a Midori Sour.

Young men, won't you listen to me: if you don't like Guinness or Wild Turkey, don't waste your life grimacing while trying to keep it down. Grow a pair and admit to yourself that you want a sweet, fruity drink where you can't even taste the alcohol. Saddle up to the bar, sit next to the unemployed grizzled ex-factory workers and proudly say “Barkeep...set me up with a Midori Sour and, aw Hell, drop two cherries in there...one for me, and one for my brothers too ashamed to admit they want one too.”

EDIT: Thanks to Schnaars for taking this pic of an obviously inebriated me, making more Sours for everyone and serving them on the lid of a pizza box.

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Horrorhound and Bound, Load 'Em Up and Truckin'!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Horrorhound and Bound, Load 'Em Up and Truckin'!
By Louis Fowler

I haven't had a vacation in about, jeez, two years, maybe? I've been so busy, what with all the writing jobs, moving five times, getting a dog, getting married...I've kinda had my hands full. With the exception of going to Denver every couple of weeks to buy records, I don't get out of town all that much.

One of the aforementioned writing jobs is for the burgeoning horror website Bloody Good Horror, and, as luck would have it, they were going to have a table at the Horrorhound Weekend Convention in Indianapolis, Indiana. Having never been to the Hoosier State,and not even knowing what the Hell a Hoosier is (is it like Gene Hackman or something?), I decided to take my two week vacation—the DEVASTATOR TOUR—starting there. My badge was paid for, the room was paid for and my plane ticket was only $60. The DEVASTATOR TOUR was also a thrifty one!

I arrived in Indianapolis, Indiana around three in the afternoon on a rainy Saturday. My good pal Casey (of Cinema Fromage fame) picked me up and as soon I entered the Marriott, I was greeted by not only my BGH pals, but also my new best friends, the crew from Night of the Living Podcast. Hugs for the ladies 'n' gentlemanly handshakes for the men all around, I wasn't there more than one minute when I was thrown on a mic and ranting on the NOTLP podcast, mostly describing how great it was to around fat people again while pencil-drawn pictures of Mozart as a vagina were thrown in my face. You can hear my inanity here.

Having not ate anything all day, I downed a few cold left-over White Castles that Casey had been carrying around. This whole trip, my main goal was to get as much White Castle as possible, and, even though those pocket-sliders were hard and congealed, they were still manna from Heaven. Even at their worse, White Castle is still the best.

Having pounded a few sliders, BGH writer Schnaars, who I was sure I was going to hate but turned out liking quite a bit, and I took a brisk walk to a nearby quick liquor store where I was accosted by some haggard and drunk cougar-wannabe who didn't like the fact I didn't know anything about wine. She told me that a bunch of her “girlfriends” were going to “party down at the lake”. I don't know if it was an invitation or just some random info, but, regardless, the hind of her stretch-pants were wet, leading me to believed she might have pissed herself.

When we returned, the gang retired to our classy hotel room and discussed such manly topics as our collective love of Katy Perry (hey, her songs are catchy!), our collective love of fine cheeses (I was recently introduced to Havarti) and our collective love of movies that make us cry (SELENA gets me every time). As we talked our macho-talk, I introduced the gents to my own personal alcoholic drink, the Midori Sour. While at first the kids were apprehensive, by the end of the night, they were downing them like they were mother's milk, if your mother was Slimer from GHOSTBUSTERS. (For more on the Midori Sour, check out the follow-up post!)

Apparently, the after hours party at Horrorhound is legendary, and once you got past the sleazy, Slavic lead singer from Gogol Bordello and his idiotic all-girl army of “alt-pin-ups” hula-hooping (Seriously, ladies, did having Bettie Page bangs and cutting yourself get too tiresome? Is this the new way for alternative chicks to get attention?), the party really did live up to its notoriety. Sure, it started off low-key at first, as I sat with BGH, NOTLP and my other new pal, Triefy from the Destroy the Brain podcast, at the lobby bar bull-shitting and making such asinine horror-nerd claims such as “Pinhead could take Godzilla in a fair fight!”, and this was nice, but then we saw the one, the only Corey Haim jet past on a mission and all Hell broke loose. (For more on my encounter with Corey Haim, check out the follow-up post!)

Apparently, while we were off partying with the Haim, there was also a bar fight, with smashed bottles and everything. It was like the old west, only very fat, reeking of Parliaments and guest-starring Derek Mears and Doug Bradley.

As the evening went on, the drunker we got, the louder we got, the more obnoxious we got. I haven't really drank that much in, man, at least over a year or two. I was downing Midori Sours like they were going out of style, which is ironic, because they were out of style about ten years ago. The last thing I remember is that we were all outside in the freezing cold and I was using a well-shaken bottle of beer to simulate a gushing penis, pretending to be Colin Ferrell. I believe it was something along the lines of “Oi, ya fookin' prat! Me name is Colin Ferrell, 'n I whas Bullseye ya coont!” (I know that a lot of this was on tape and is currently being edited into a feature. What are my future kids going to say???)

I remember fading out about 4 AM, sleeping on the floor and waking up with a bloody nose. I hope I wasn't raped.

The next day was bittersweet, as everyone left early for their respective flights home. I bought bootlegs of Alexandro Jodorowsky's SANTA SANGRE and Hal Needham's RAD. They were ten bucks each and are the best-looking boots I have ever seen. I wish I had bought more, actually. I really hope I run into this seller again. Additionally, Chez from NOTLP and I filmed a segment called “Who Wants to Be a Tortillanaire?”, where I offered fresh tortillas to the likes of Adrienne Barbeau, Jason Mewes and Bill Moseley. (Is this being edited guys? I think we have a pilot here...)

Sometime later, Casey, who so diligently picked me up, dropped me off at the scary Cincinnati bus station where, when I was using the bathroom, a hand came out from under the next stall and tried to steal my bag that was sitting on the floor near my feet. (Bus station tip: take advantage of the lockers!) And, with that, began the next leg of my journey, fraught with danger, junkies, gang members, BBQ sandwiches and being hit in the head for snoring by a fat white bitch (who be tryin' to act black) wearing a stained 5XL Tweety Bird “Talk to 'Da Hand!” t-shirt.

TO BE CONTINUED!

DAMAGED Reconsiders: JOSIE AND THE PUSSYCATS!!!

JOSIE AND THE PUSSYCATS
Starring Rachael Leigh Cook, Rosario Dawson, Tara Reid
Directed by Deborah Kaplan and Harry Elfont
Universal Home Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

I don't believe in having guilty pleasures. If you feel guilty for liking something, you probably shouldn't be liking it in the first place. Especially if it's child pornography.

But as far as mainstream music or movies go, why hold back your fandom just because everyone much cooler than you have gotten together and decided that it's culturally lame? Why not stand up for what you like and be a defender of it? Why not grow some balls, man? I have had to stand up for so many of my favorite films from the early '00s, ranging from DETROIT ROCK CITY to FREDDY GOT FINGERED and, um, SPICE WORLD , but really, none of them are honestly as unfairly maligned as JOSIE AND THE PUSSYCATS.

Released in the wake of the SCOOBY-DOO revolution, when just about every classic cartoon was being option into fart-filled family fare, JOSIE was lumped in there and, even worse, marketed as part of some pre-tween girl-power flick that just double-killed its box office chances. But maybe it was for the best?

Starting off with a brutal parody of the then-popular boy band craze with a knock-off called DuJour (haha, “of the day”, I just got that), effectively mimicking the sly homoeroticism with a song called “Backdoor Lover”. It's in this opening that it becomes apparent that instead of subjecting itself willingly to the teen crowd, JOSIE not only bit the hand that fed it, but unleashed a torrent of hot urine on it. It caustically depicts teens as mindless automatons who follow the next trend with such brainlessness that they are easily manipulated by something as rote as subliminal messages. It's one of the most accurate depictions of the 13-18 crowd in recent cinema and, in retrospect, one that has even grown worse in the eight or so years since JOSIE's release. Seriously—today's teens are even bigger fucking idiots.

So, while teen-band DuJour represents the soulless boy-band pop of the day, Riverdale's Josie and her friends Val and Melody, collectively known as the Pussycats, represent the last remaining tenants of garage rock in an increasingly commercialized world. They're power-poppy and attractive enough for MegaRecords to sign them and, literally, become overnight sensations. Sure, the storyline is your basic rise and fall and “don't give up on your friends” and “remember what's important” tale, but the sheer spite that directors Deborah Kaplan and Harry Elfont (who also did the fun teen flick CAN'T HARDLY WAIT) have for the music industry and the sycophantic fans of their product is what makes the movie so subversive.

At one point, when label honcho Wyatt (a snarky Alan Cumming) delivers a new DuJour track to a record store, all the teens go nuts and start talking about all the new things they need to buy, like Puma sweats and Zima. A goth chick (in what I think is a Siouxie shirt) calls it “crap”, to which Wyatt says “Wow, you're a real freethinker!” and promptly silences her by throwing her in the back of a van and violently kidnapping her. It's a big, black-fingernail painted middle-finger pointed right at the audience. Like I said, subversive.

Speaking of the word “subversive”: you know, any douchebag NYU film student can film a performance artist taking a dump on the American flag and call it “subversive cinema”, but is it really? I don't think so; no one is really going to sit down and watch that for entertainment. Its not going to make a difference because its the type of shock value “subversiveness” that people expect. You fail. Your message only retains its “power” between your yes-men pals and pony-tailed pretentious professor. A+, dude.

But, and I firmly believe this, if you can make a piece of art that infiltrates pop culture, gets in the heads of the young and insults them without even knowing it, well, that's real subversiveness. Look at the Village People's “YMCA” for example: this song, about the joys of promiscuous sex in a gym's locker-room area is chanted en masse everyday at sporting events and the like. When you can get a stadium full of homophobic sports-fans to sing the praises of anally infiltrating “young men” complete with choreographed arm-waving, you are a master of cultural subversion. (Although, I guess because JOSIE didn't fare well at the box office, it only really half succeeded. And that's far more than anything a guy shitting on a flag has done. Pass the TP.)

Rewatching it right now, the only thing that really bogs down the film is an unnecessary minor romantic subplot with a local twink named Alan M., played by former model twink Gabriel Mann. But, whatever, it's over quick enough and all is forgiven as soon as Carson Daly tries to kill Tara Reid with a baseball bat. If only life imitated art!

The rest of the cast is perfect, with the “where is she now” Rachael Leigh Cook as the cynically-cheerful pixie Josie, the extremely buxom Rosario Dawson as the tough'n'sporty Val, and, incredibly enough, the possibly developmentally disabled Tara Reid earns special notice, giving her best performance ever as the definitely developmentally disabled Melody. If Sean Penn and Tom Hanks can win accolades for playing “special”, so should she. Retroactive Oscar, please!

Even more remarkable is the music. Usually in movies about bands, the music is pretty bad. Really bad. It's one of the fallacies of music movies—they spend so much time telling the story of the band they forget about the music and just throw some crap together that no one in the real world would ever buy. This has changed considerably in the past ten years, with filmmakers hiring actual songwriters and singers to create music that you would actually want to hear. In JOSIE's case, it comes courtesy of former Letters to Cleo lead singer Kay Hanley. I dare you not to fall in love with the irresistibly catchy “Three Small Words”. (Funnily enough, I can't remember any single Letters to Cleo song. It kinda makes you wonder why she didn't save up this song for her band and turn that into a hit...)

JOSIE AND THE PUSSYCATS should've been a bigger hit, but, for it to really retain its power, it's a good thing it wasn't. If it had been a hit, the satire would have been lost in sequels and merchandising, becoming the very thing the movie was railing against. It's a punk movie masquerading as pure pop for today's teens and ultimately deserving of reevaluation, especially in light of today's failing music business.

OK, and if none of that sells you, Rosario Dawson doesn't wear a bra in this whole thing and bops around. Like, a lot.

(NOTE: There's two versions of this movie out: a PG-rated “edited for family viewing” version which kid-friendlies everything and the harder-to-find PG-13 version. This write-up is based on the better PG-13 version and is available new for under $10 from Amazon.)

PREVIOUS DAMAGED Reconsiders:
JOHNNY MNEMONIC

DAMAGED Cooking: HUEVOS NACHEROS!!!

As a Hispanic, I can attest that there are two things that routinely plague our community: trying to get a job with a faceful of homemade teardrop tattoos and, perhaps more importantly, what to do with those leftover huevos rancheros.



Every Sunday morning I make a pan of BAKED huevos rancheros, with three-to five eggs, a package of lean pork Boulder Sausage Chorizo (who would have though that the best chorizo I've ever had would come from, of all places, Boulder??? I thought the liberal hippies had outlawed meat there in-between shooting seasons of MORK AND MINDY...) and lots--and I mean lots--of onions, peppers, tomatoes, just dump it all in and bake for about half an hour for a fluffy consistency.

But we've always got a bit left. So, like my people are wont to do, I turn limóns into limónade--care to try some HUEVOS NACHEROS? Just add your favorite tortilla chips (I get mine fresh from the Mexi-market) and a little bit of 2% cheese, some fat free sour cream, some homemade salsa (is there any other kind?) and some homemade guacamole.



Astound your friends! They'll think they are eating regular nachos and then they'll taste the chorizo and be all like "Dude, these aren't regular nachos..." and you'll be all like, "That's right! They aren't, you gringo puta! These are HUEVOS NACHEROS! La Raza por vida! Anything for Selenas!"

Seriously though, they are pretty damn tasty.

The RECORD STORE DAY round-up!!!

Did everyone have a great Record Store Day yesterday? Hopefully you did. Hopefully, for once in your worthless life, you did something of consumer substance and went out to an independent, locally-owned record store and took advantage of the great deals and promotions they had to offer in celebration of this great day.

(It's funny: I have no idea when Martin Luther King Day is, but I know when both Independent Record Store Day AND Free Comic Book Day is...)

The Fort Collins record store that I frequent the most--well, it's really the only one left, now that I think about it--is a small shop called The Finest that is suffering pretty hard in this economy. They recently moved to a smaller shop and, as indie music stores are dying out, it's becoming more and more important for us media consumers to spend our money there to at least keep them afloat for a few more weeks. And, if you actually take the time to look, you can usually get the same product you'd normally purchase at a big box store used and at over half the price. And don't forget those records for a buck!

The Finest celebrated by having a huge 50 cent CD sale, with tons of discs in front of the store and man, did I make out like a gay, gay thief. Like that gay thief in OCEAN'S TWELVE!

Here's a rundown of the cheap music you'll be hearing on DAMAGED Hearing this Tuesday:

Paula Abdul - FOREVER YOUR GIRL // Air Supply - ULTIMATE AIR SUPPLY // AIRHEADS - Original Soundtrack Album // BILLBOARD TOP HITS 1977 // Eric Carmen - THE BEST OF ERIC CARMEN // Erasure -I SAY I SAY I SAY I SAY // Europe - OUT OF THIS WORLD // Amy Grant - HEART IN MOTION (yes, another copy!) // Amy Grant - BEHIND THE EYES // ROB ZOMBIE'S HALLOWEEN - Original Motion Picture Soundtrack (I own this already, but this'll make a great giveaway when H2 comes out) // Paul Haslinger - FUTURE PRIMITIVE // THE LADIES MAN - Music from the Motion Picture // Nelson - AFTER THE RAIN // THE OLIVER STONE CONNECTION: A MUSICAL TRIP INTO THE CELLULOID WORLD OF OLIVER STONE // PARTY MONSTER - Original Motion Picture Soundtrack // Paul Potts - ONE CHANCE // Prince and the New Power Generation - (THE SYMBOL ALBUM) // Helen Reddy - GREATEST HITS // Skid Row - SKID ROW // Shania Twain - COME ON OVER // Wilson Phillips - WILSON PHILLIPS



That's right. All those albums for ten bucks. Hours and hours of entertainment. For me, at least. God bless Independent Record Store Day and God bless indie record stores!

Help Louis Get a STAR TREK Shirt!!!

I very rarely, if ever, eat Rice Krispies for breakfast. Scratch that: I never eat them. I find them quite distasteful and that "snap, krackle, pop" noise often ruins breakfast for me. I like my cereal to keep its damn mouth shut.

And even though she knows this, my wife still picked up a box and just as I was about to set fire to it to teach her a lesson, I noticed that with nine "Star Trek" tokens, I can get a FREE STAR TREK uniform tee. And I really want one to wear to the first screening of the new movie which, just so you know, I am creaming my jeans over in anticipation.

But there is no way in Nejpu' that I am going to let Rice Krispies in my house again. So, what do I do? Well, I am asking you, my friends, to send me your STAR TREK tokens from specially marked boxes of Rice Krispies, and I think maybe Frosted Flakes and Eggos.

(Sadly, the a-holes at Kashi Good Friends miss the boat once again.)



Think you can help me out? Then send your tokens to:

LOUIS FOWLER
PO BOX 2332
FORT COLLINS, CO
80522

Please let Gene Roddenberry's dream become a reality. Get Louis a Star Fleet shirt! (And, to sweeten the deal, any extra tokens I receive will be used to get shirts for poor nerd children who love STAR TREK but are too poor to buy memorabilia. I will honestly do this. But I need my shirt first!)

In the immortal words of Spock, "Don't be a dick, bro."

DAMAGED Cooking: LOUIS'S FISH TACO-SANDWICH!!!

As I was shuffling things around in the freezer, I noticed that I had a few packages of tilapia that had to have been in there for a year. I am a pretty big fish fan (although I hope the band Phish dies in a plane crash, but that's neither here nor there), I'll sometimes buy fish and forget about it. But no more--I'm taking a stand and deciding to have more fish in my diet.

So, where do I go from there? Fish tacos, right? Eh, kinda.



First, I bake the fish in my over personal spicy tomato, pepper and garlic-based sauce, adding liberal sprays of lime juice and just a couple of shakes of habanero seasoning. Then, you cook dat shit!



At the Mexican store I frequent, in addition to fresh-off-the-press tortillas, they have now started selling packages of gorditas--if all you know about gorditas is from Taco Bell, I pity you. Imagine a thick tortilla the size of a Silver Dollar pancake. Cook them on a sheet in the oven 'til they get crispy. Aw, man, they are so good. I think they're better for you than regular tortillas as well, but don't quote me on that. Or do, what do I care?

OK, here we go. Fish tacos are wonderful, don't get me wrong, but what about using the gorditas as makeshift buns and making a fish taco sandwich? Huh? You like???



On one side, put a couple of pieces of the baked fish and a spoonful of the sauce it was cooked in, and a big helping of fresh cole slaw (made with fat-free mayo!). On the other side, a spoonful of fat-free sour cream, some fresh grated cheese and some home-made guacamole (yeah, guacamole is not all that good for you, but, if you make if from fresh avacados and don't add all those extra ingredients, it's gotta be a little bit better for you than store bought, right?).

Smash together and prepare for an orgasm of incredible sexy fish-flavored Mexican deliciousness. Kinda like going down on Salma Hayek, I imagine.



This may be my new favorite meal, but it did just give me an idea for a variation in this using taco meat. Stay tuned...

BIG LOTS, BIGGER DEALS: My Big Lots Closeout DVD Purchases for 04.16.09!!!

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--no slimline $1 public domain titles here--and, best of all, all for only three bucks! Here's my haul from this week--feel free to post yours in the comments!



* THE PROPOSITION - An Australian Western from 2006 that I have never seen, but vaguely remember hearing about. It stars Guy Pierce and Ray Winstone and is rated R for "strong grisly violence". So that's good.

* WAITING FOR GUFFMAN - One of the funniest movies ever made, and one that I have not been able to find a copy of for less than $25 for over five years.

* EATING RAOUL - Classic bad taste comedy starring Bartel and Woronov. If you see this one, snatch it up quickly because it is out of print and already in demand.

* BARRY LYNDON - I only own a few Kubrick films, as, sorry film geeks, I find his stuff extremely hit or miss. The one movie of his I haven't seen, BARRY LYNDON, has always interested me, and I don't know why I haven't seen it, especially when I've seen, like, four Larry the Cable Guy flicks. What's my deal, yo?

* DISORDERLIES - C'mon...it's the Fat Boys, and they're taking care of a crotchety old white dude! Comedy! (Now if only they'd release TOUGHER THAN LEATHER...)

* STROKER ACE - I have owned two copies of this in the past and, for some reason, both have turned up missing. What gives? I think that maybe Burt Reynolds has a tiny cabal of homunculuses that steal his films from your collection, insuring that you'll have to buy another copy, thusly giving Burt a few cents of royalties in his pocket. Genius!

* VIVA KNIEVEL! - With Evel starring as himself, Gene Kelly as his alkie mechanic and Leslie Nielsen as a murderous mobster. Grilled cheese at its finest!!!

In addition to the ton of Warner Brothers/Hammer horror flicks, they also had some newer horror titles like THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE remake and the recently released APRIL FOOL'S DAY remake. A limited budget stopped me this visit, but they also had a few newer straight-to-video actioners from Seagal, Dudikoff and Lundgren.

Other titles of interest include, from the Stanley Kubrick Collection, EYES WIDE SHUT, scads of WB flicks from the 30s-50s and a standee with kid-related movies like LIKE MIKE and GARFIELD. If you have kids, these could make good presents, mostly because kids are stupid.

They also had RACE THE SUN starring Jim Belushi and Halle Berry. Don't pretend like you don't remember it.

I'm still needing Paul Bartel's PRIVATE PARTS, IT'S ALIVE, THE CITY OF LOST CHILDREN, THE DARK BACKWARD and HARDCORE, which all my friends outside of FC have found, but I haven't, alas. If you see them, let me know.

DAMAGED Goods: 7-11's Mutant Berry Slurpee!!!

The only time I really seem to go into 7-11 anymore is when a new comic book movie comes out, because they always have the best product tie-ins. They went all out for IRON MAN, THE INCREDIBLE HULK and, even though its not a comic, who can forget the way they went balls-out for THE SIMPSONS MOVIE? (Although, I gotta ask, where was the PUNISHER: WAR ZONE tie-in? No Frank Castle Big Bites? No War Zone Watermelon Slurpee?)

We're all so super-excited for the upcoming X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE. It's the solo movie many of us comic book nerds have waited a long time for—sorry, fans of the unmade TANDY COMPUTER WHIZ KIDS: THE MOVIE! What better way to momentarily quench this adamantium thirst than with the new Mutant Berry flavor Slurpee, which 7-11 has trotted out with apparently little to no fanfare; I think the economy must be hurting them, because with the exception of a banner, my 7-11 was pretty blasé about the whole deal. Even the sign on the machine was written with a Sharpie. I guess Internet piracy really does hurt everybody...

So, how does it taste? Well, the first taste is great. A really tangy, lemony-berry taste that is instantly tantalizing. It's tartness is wonderful. But, then, there's this ultimately unpleasant aftertaste...the best way to describe is like this: say you let someone who has been eating Cheetos or Doritos take a sip of your drink and they get that chip dust from their lips and finger all over the straw, so when you drink it, you get a slight cheesy-corn chip flavor. (This also works with Chili-Cheese Fritos.) It tastes like that.

Does it ruin the flavor? Quite a bit. Part of me wants to try another, thinking that maybe this one is a fluke, but, you know, two bucks is a lot of money. So I'll just stick with that good ol' stand-by of Coca-Cola. You never disappoint me, Coca-Cola Slurpee!

And, like IRON MAN, they are offering collectible cups, but, sorry, these are pretty ugly, featuring badly designed lenticular character stills from the movie, while the previous ones featured pretty kick-ass artwork, also lenticular. BUT, they are also again offering collector's straws, featuring little collectible figurines, but, unlike in the past, this time they have little stand-up bases so you can pose them on any desk or bookshelf. (Now if only 7-11 could sell those individually; I'd have a place for my IRON MAN and HULK straw figures, which, because they can't stand up, reside in a drawer in my kitchen.)

As I was drinking it though, it did strike me as funny that this was called Mutant Berry. I'm drinking a frozen treat based around abnormal genetic mutations that, while it may create fantastical powers above and beyond that of normal men, it also creates physical abhorrences that make you retreat from society—I'm looking at you, Morlocks!

CROWLEY: He's a magick man!

CROWLEY
Starring Simon Callow, Kal Weber, John Shrapnel
Directed by Julian Doyle
Anchor Bay Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

I don't know about you, but I love to rock out with, well, my cock out. I also like to party hard, party 'til I puke, rock steady, rock and roll all night and party everyday, get down on it, up jump the boogie, get my groove on and, what the Hell, Wang Chung tonight.

And as most rockers will tell you, this constant hard rockin', hard drinkin' and hard partyin' vibe is achievable only one-way: through a hard-won pact with the Dark Lord himself, Satan. Probably no one knew this better than the original Satanic-panic party-starter, the self-proclaimed reincarnation of the Beast himself...Aleister Crowley!

Well, at least that's what his sycophants want us to believe. Hell, I know I wanted to believe it! True story: in middle school, I bought a copy of his pseudo-memoir DIARY OF A DRUG FIEND at a garage sale and read it during my classes, most notably my algebra one class. Now there was a very cute, well, non-traditionally cute, Goth girl who took an interest in my book and, during private study time, came over to talk to me about Satan and her love of him and that she had heard of Crowley, but wasn't familiar with him. I, like the love-lorn chump, offered to loan her my unfinished paperback, thinking that it would be just the thing to get my young, clean, pink tongue inside her black-lipped, cigarette-reeking mouth.

Of course I failed, as during lunch that day, at the smoker's corner where she hung out, she was making out with an older guy, who, by the way, had his hand up her dress. Totally depressed, I thought “What Would Crowley Do?”, so I went to the art supply closet, closed the door and cried, unaware that I was in an unventilated room that was quickly filling with a hundred or so intoxicant vapors swirling about, from various varnishes to open rubber cement tins. I passed out, only to be awoken by the art teacher with the whole class laughing at me, Goth girl included.

The credo “do what thou wilt” had obviously, massively, failed me, and, in a fit of despair, I let her keep the book and instead started reading Lenny Bruce's HOW TO TALK DIRTY AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE. (I ended up calling my social studies teacher a “fuckhead” after reading that, but that's a whole other story.)

But, what it came down to at the time was that I was utterly fascinated by the mythological Crowley, much like many of his past followers probably were. The supposedly “magickal” and mysterious magician Crowley, the one who bedded concubine after concubine in various sexual rites, climbed the mountains of the Himalayas and had such little respect for authority. He was a great rebellious icon for me in that moment—much more so than that sad sack Kurt Cobain that my fellow classmates had fallen for. Like Crowley, I wanted do all that mystical nonsense, but mostly only for all the sex stuff. It was easy to see why and how, in the early part of the 20th century, he amassed a nice bunch of followers, equally drawing in people looking for a deeper meaning to the universe and others, like me, looking to get their philosopher stones off.

After a while though, you learn the not-all-that-shocking truth about who Crowley really was: a possibly psychotic, definitely sociopathic, syphilis-ridden, morbidly overweight kook who died a penniless junkie in a London flophouse. All that he left behind were a handful of silly books and creepy photos, but, because he proclaimed himself the Beast, or the Anti-Christ, which at the time was all “OHNOHEDIDNT!”, I guess people though he was scarier than he really was. Hey—it worked for Anton LaVey and Marilyn Manson too!

If Crowley was alive today though, do you think that he'd be able to take such a hold on society? I'd like to doubt it. I'd like to think he'd be that creepy old guy who hangs out by the rest room at your local park, passing out hand-written tracts about the “end times” while playing glory hole whack-a-mole while no one was looking. But, then I see fatter, balder, creepier guys on TYRA running brothels and swingers' clubs and vampire meet-ups, so I could be wrong. I mean, have you seen Larry Flynt?

The whole idea of Crowley returning to our plane of existence is the premise of the wonderfully entertaining CROWLEY, which overseas is known by the much more kick-ass name of CHEMICAL WEDDING, which they should have kept. Really, guys.

Written by Bruce Dickinson—yes, THE Bruce Dickinson—of Iron Maiden fame, is being touted as a serious horror film, but I'm afraid that terror-fans will be sorely disappointed; you'd think, because of the subject matter and utterly misleading DVD cover, that this should be an evil little horror flick, but instead it's actually one of the funniest, blackest British comedies I've seen in a long time. It's actually a hilarious romp! CROWLEY is like a MONTY PYTHON sketch written by perverted Satanist junkies, which is something that I have honestly always wanted to see—now my life is complete.

After a nice expository prologue in the 1940s where Crowley dies and places a curse on a young follower, the flick moves forward to modern times where a st-st-stuttering Cambridge professor, through the use of computers and virtual reality and CGI and electromagnets and I think rocket fuel, gets inadvertently possessed by Crowley, who takes over his body goes on a four-day rampage of food, folks and fun.

He says he wants to take over the world, but what does he do? Well, for starters he gives a lecture to a group of students and decides to prove his point by urinating on the front row. He also masturbates his male lab partner in a “magick ritual”, leaves a steaming pile of feces on a desk as a prank, shaves a prostitute's vagina and sends a fax covered in ejaculate—no, you don't understand: the fax actually comes out the other end, covered in semen. The powers of the Dark One, I tell you what! Sure, he talks a big game about ushering in a new era of global evil, but he can't keep it in his pants long enough to really accomplish anything.

The funny thing is is that is probably, more than likely, exactly, what Crowley would do if he were to be resurrected today. Even if he was the Anti-Christ, even if he really, honestly was the Beast, Satan incarnate as dictated in the Holy Bible, I seriously doubt he would have gotten much done. We'd have nothing to fear, as instead of turning the moon to blood and the waters to wormwood, chooses to take care of his constant boner. Forget DIARY OF A DRUG FIEND or MOONCHILD—he should've wrote HOW TO PICK UP CHICKS, THE ALEISTER CROWLEY WAY! He certainly gives other fat, balding, utterly pretentious degenerate dudes hope in that arena!

As Crowley, acclaimed Brit actor Simon Callow essays the possessed prof, relishing every moment with an over-the-top, perverted, demonic glee that only makes the movie even more enjoyable. This is the kind of caddish role that I imagine every actor must pray for; the bastard who can do anything and everything and everyone he wants with little to no repercussions. And while Crowley himself may not have been the actual “Beast”, through Callow's performance, he certainly lives up to his second title, the “Wickedest Man in the World”, as Callow deliciously makes Crowley as brutally wicked as Lucifer himself.

CROWLEY is an extremely British, extremely funny b-movie shocker that manages to effortlessly work in such Crowley mythos as physics, black holes and parallel universes with copious amounts of dirty sex and non-stop perversion. It's the kind of movie I would have made to impress that Goth chick. It's the kind of movie I would have made while dizzy on varnish fumes.

Crowley would be proud. Or high on smack. Whatever.

NEW YORK CITY LAMENTATIONS: An Open Letter and Commentary to Frank Whaley, If Applicable.

A few weeks ago I posted a review of the latest “film” from Frank Whaley, the unfortunate NEW YORK CITY SERENADE. Normally I don't review movies like that here, instead saving them for my newspaper columns or some other more mainstream media, but it was such a horrifically bad flick that my review quickly went from 125 words to over 1000—it takes a pretty special movie to move you like that. It takes a pretty special movie to incite you like that. A special movie like NEW YORK CITY SERENADE.

Mr. Whaley must know how to use Google Alerts, because within days of posting the review, numerous comments on the review (and oddly enough, a piece about my beard growth) started appearing, all using clever variations of the word “fat”. Ahem.

At first I played it off as some more ICP-induced spam, but the deeper down the Whaley hole I went, I noticed they were all coming from the same ISP, a Roadrunner account in New York City. Could be anybody, right? And then two comments appeared, originating from Frank's wife's blog, the ironically titled “Eating Your Feelings”. That pretty much confirmed my suspicions that Mr. Frank Whaley, the star of CAREER OPPORTUNITES and some other things I have vague remembrances of, was fat-blasting my blog. He was throwing a temper tantrum of hilarious proportions.

Here's a few of the comments that Frank left:

“You are fat, ugly and bitter. You are a talentless blogger who probably sits alone in a small apt eating a lot and jerking off to gay porn. Then eating some more. You love horror films, your broke and can't get laid and that is why you are so angry. Try being human and going outside you fat prick.”

“You must be really busy down there in your Mom's basement doing all this popular culture critic stuff. I bet its safe to say you've never been popular at any point in your chubby existence.”

“You are fat and angry. You are also bitter and probably very lonely. You have no talent so you are a critic. Go eat some more and then watch some more porn.”

“Your fat, angry and probably very alone. Go eat some more and then go watch some more porn.”

With such sharp, witty writing like that, it's no wonder that NEW YORK CITY SERENADE sat on the shelf for three years. But I knew I wasn't the only one to give NYCS a bad review. I couldn't be. A quick trip to Rotten Tomatoes informed me that not only did the movie have an 8% (!) freshness rating, but that other media outlets—far more notable and respected than I could ever be—hated the film just as much as I did. Here's a nice collection of quips:

“...transparently banal.” - The New York Times

“Arrested development has never been less arresting.” - The Hollywood Reporter

“...a series of sour notes.” - Variety

A “regrettable comedy.” - Box Office Magazine

“Disappointing...” - New York Daily News

“...one of those pointless indies that you'll have forgotten before the credits roll... Frank Whaley's staggering lack of insight, imagination and wit reaches Ed Burns proportions...” - New York Post

Did Whaley spam those guys with insulting comments? Did he send them poorly written letters to the editor? Did he cry in his Corn Flakes? Was he an inconsolable mess over the fact that this, his dream project, his statement as an artist, was a complete and utter failure that is universally hated by everyone except maybe his coattail-riding wife? I am actually quite flattered that, even after scathing reviews from the biggest media outlets in America, you chose me to give feedback to! You chose me to unload your anger on! I was the cupcake that broke the fat-man's back! I feel like I deserve a certificate or trophy or something!

And as far as the insults go, calling me fat? That's fine, Frank. That's as clever as you get. That's the best you can do. Have your little sad victory now, but remember this: I may be fat, but I can always lose weight. No matter what, you'll always be the has-been who made NEW YORK CITY SERENADE.

I gotta say, there was one insult though that struck me as brilliant:

“Louis Fowler is a pop culture critic. Based on your photo you must eat quite a bit of pop culture.”

That's a hilarious line! Seriously. It's a line like that that makes me feel like you should skip all this drama nonsense and try to write a comedy. Look, let's call a truce and do a screenplay together. I even have a great idea: a diminutive, washed-up actor and director, fed up that his latest vanity project has been universally derided, flames the small-time blog of an overweight “pop-culture critic” who lives in his mom's basement. They fight amongst themselves and no one cares. Let's call it CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM. Whaddya think, Frankie?