DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Bang, that's wild!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Bang, that's wild!
By Louis Fowler

It's funny: since I've met Tom, Scott and Melissa, I've had about ten or so dreams with them in it. The one I had recently involved them inviting a bunch of low-level porn stars over to my house, but both Tom and Scott were too tired to hang out so they went to sleep. Disgusted by me and my unsightly, unattractive face and body, the porn stars went to sleep too. So, I just kinda sat there, reading a Spider-Man comic that didn't exist and waking up wishing that it did.

Baltimore's Tom Warner and Scott Huffines had been heroes of mine since high school, when Rod “Formerly HITCH, now BOOKGASM” Lott lent me copies of their public access TV show ATOMIC TV. To this day it's not only my favorite television show of all time, but it's anarchic, middle finger spirit is still an inspiration to me. While other people my age were writing their “Who is the biggest influence in your life?” essays for their college apps about their grandmas or Martin Luther King, there I was, writing about Rod Lott, Tom Warner, Scott Huffines and, well, a few lines about Rudy Ray Moore, as I had also recently discovered DOLEMITE and was obsessed.

When the Internet became more commonplace, I eventually manned-up and contacted Tom and Scott who gladfully submitted to an interview for my magazine DAMAGED. Additionally, I also interviewed Melissa Darwin, then known to me as ATOMIC TV starlet Chastity Darling, who I was inconsolably infatuated with. They were all such incredibly nice guys who, surprising to me, were fans of my stuff too. Since then, we've all stayed in touch via different social networking systems and the like, but never really actually ever met. Ever.

That all changed on the DEVASTATOR '09 tour, though.

Some people want to be a star in LA, or a hipster big-wig in New York. I have always felt that my place was in Baltimore. It's like an urbane Oklahoma City or Austin minus the irony. It's a city with a proud weight and attitude problem and, after living in Fort Collins, one of “America's Fittest Cities” and “America's Best Place to Live”, respectively, it was great to be “the slim one” and “the nice guy”. It's someplace that I want to live someday. I love Baltimore.

My plans had gotten all bugga-booed and the bus-ride to Baltimore was a nightmare, with a day to hangout there subtracted. I had hoped to spend the day with Tom and Scott—they always spoke of a “syphilis tree” that intrigued me—but, sadly, it wasn't meant to be.

After a gang-fight that ended with our bus-driver getting what-for upside the head, we pulled into Baltimore about 8:30 PM, and, after numerous time changes and finaglings, was happy to see the burly bear that is Scott Huffines waiting for me, happily enough, even though he was suffering from the flu, a minor respiratory illness and an infected tooth. As we headed into town to meet up with Tom and Melissa at the Golden West, Tom, at roughly 15-miles over the speed limit, gave me a hilarious BENNY HILL-style tour of the seamier side of Baltimore, including a quick glance at the alley where Divine ate dog-shit in PINK FLAMINGOS, as well as every single former location of his former business, Atomic Books.

I, starstruck, was too afraid to say too much of anything, lest I be thought of as a moron.

We arrived at the restaurant, the aforementioned Golden West, and there was my wispy blond angel Tom—he should be the official spokesmen for Scandinavians, even if he isn't one—and Melissa, who should be the spokesmen for delightful and pleasant humans, as she welcomed with a hug and a pirate-themed welcome gift filled with various Baltimore-related items, such as milk and cream based caramel candies, gooey cream-filled goodies from the good people at Mary Sue, a crab-shaped lollipop and, a decidedly non-edible Baltimore Orioles yo-yo. (I still haven't taken any of these out of their wrappers, wanting to preserve them for all time.)

We all filed into the nice, swanky “fusion” eatery, and I promptly ordered a legendary Natural Bohemian beer—one of the few beers I have actually been able to stomach, thus, I loved it—and, per Scott's order, a “Bacon Bullet Bourbon Shooter”, which is a tasty-ish cocktail made-up of Bullet bourbon, molasses and a stick of bacon. Five minutes into Baltimore and I have already spit in my concerned doctor's face from at least three different angles.

As we sat there, eating our meals—I ordered a burrito of some sort that tricked me into eating squash as a Mexican food, but was, don't get me wrong, very delicious, talking about SAG cards, masturbation euphemisms past ATOMIC TV reminisces, hipster doofuses and Baconnaise, which I have learned is my new, awesome albatross, to the point where J & D should hire me as a spokesman.

I, starstruck, was too afraid to say too much of anything, lest I be thought of as a moron.

The dinner was really way too short, with, after a few pics taken, Melissa had to go home and go bed, as she is a responsible “early riser”. I made sure to get some “huggy” pictures, because I am pretty sleazy at times. A tear welled in the corner of my eye as she left.

Even though Tom and Scott had work the next day, and were sickly on top of that, they soldiered on and took me to a local neighborhood corner swanky bar called Rocket to Venus, where I had a few more Natty Bo's that quickly rocketed to my penis, as I had to urinate, like, five times. That's a good beer! We sat on bar-stools, like dudes do, talking about chicks, Underdog Lady, chicks, hipster hats, chicks and how we are all getting old and, as soon as we get home from work, get into our pajamas, my pajamas being boxers and nothing else—this might have worried Tom, as I was “crashing” at his place tonight.

After standing around for a while, hobnobbing with the locals where I pretended to blend in by making fun of the Baltimore suburb of Dundalk. “HAHAHA, yeah, what losers! LOL...please be my friend...”

Scott, no longer able to force off the amorous advances of Mr. Sandman, called it a night. As his burly, bear-like visage disappeared into the night, a tear welled in the corner of my eye as he left.

This left me with Tom, at whose house, as I said earlier, I was “crashing” at. After letting Tom know, repeatedly, I might add, that I snore to the point of comedic loudness, he took me on a tour of his insanely awesome house, a house which, if my wife would let me have my way, would be decorated. Filled with years of cult movie memorabilia lost musical treasure, library-shelves filled with outré' lit and rows and rows of zines. He could have started his own zine museum (a mu-zine-um?). We chatted for a while about Tommy Keene, and then I finally passed out in his guest room, on a bed whose mattress must have been stuffed with kittens and angels; I sunk into it and sunk into dreamland.

I also used his facilities—thanks, squash burrito—and, on my way out, promptly apologized for turning his bathroom into a “Troma movie”. After 30 hours on a bus and a squash burrito, it wasn't pretty.

It was early in the morning when Tom awoke me to let me know he was leaving. He left me some towels and said our goodbyes. A tear welled in the corner of my eye as he left.

While I will always cherish the time I spent with this Atomic Trio, I can't help but note that it was the most bitter or bittersweet. All these years and I had so many questions, and places to relive that I had seen on video...I had always hoped that I would show up and we'd all get out video cameras and shoot a new episode of ATOMIC TV entitled “Louis Does Baltimore, But Baltimore Gets the Upper Hand and Does Louis Back”. It would end with a bar-fight at an outside art-instillation where I would be stabbed by a disgruntled vet. I would have also been in my underwear when it happened, in tribute to ATV superstar Chris Jensen.

There's always next time, right? Or, better yet, why don't you guys come down here to Fort Collins? You guys think hipsters are bad, wait until you get a whiff of the Rocky Mountain Hippies! And, I promise that even though I'll be starstruck, I won't be too afraid to say too much of anything, lest I be thought of as a moron.

(For Tom's take on the whole thing, check out his post here.)

X-MEN ORIGINS – WOLVERINE: Snikt, snikt, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is.

X-MEN ORIGINS – WOLVERINE
Starring Hugh Jackman, Liev Schreiber, Danny Huston
Directed by Gavin Hood
20th Century Fox
Review by Louis Fowler

OK. So here we go again.

So I finally got around to watching WOLVERINE yesterday. Usually I am first in line for comic book adaptations, but I've been so out of it lately that I almost missed it, like I did with PUNISHER: WAR ZONE—I'm still kicking myself over that, because that was a movie that the phrase “fucking awesome” was created for.

Look: WOLVERINE is a great, fun movie. It's definitely the best of the X-MEN movies; it wonderfully avoids Bryan Singer's heavy-handedness and Brett Ratner's ham-handedness, creating an extremely exciting movie that, as far as Marvel adaptations go, is right up there at the top for me. What is there to hate here?

I know you disagree with me, fine. I've read the other reviews—it was hard not to miss the bad (mostly) Internet reviews from nerds who were miffed about one thing or another. This is the same problem I had with FANTASTIC FOUR: RISE OF THE SILVER SURFER. I've noticed, from the websites I write for to the forums I frequent to the sly little Twitter quips, that more and more, as the Internet transforms into a bigger, louder community, they are starting to form a Borg-like Hive mentality that eschews any type of differing opinions.

I didn't like WATCHMEN. OK—I thought it was, you know, “alright”, but it sure as hell wasn't the end-all, be-all of comic book adaptations. The graphic novel is overrated enough, but the movie's fandom felt forced. You were made to feel like you had to like it or you just didn't get the illustrated storytelling medium. You were an imbecile who still reads—P'SHAW—lame heroes like SUPERMAN. No matter how you slice it, WATCHMEN was too long, too boring, too overwrought and too cold. But, then again, I love the previous PUNISHER adaptations and GHOST RIDER and the FANTASTIC FOUR flicks and even DAREDEVIL, so I'm wrong, right? My opinion is wrong. My likes are wrong. What I find entertaining is wrong.

Recently, I've caught hell for liking ROB ZOMBIE'S HALLOWEEN (I like it better than the original) and not wanting to see MARTYRS or ALL THE BOYS LOVE MANDY LANE or BASEMENT GEEK CIRCLE JERK #12. (And why is everyone supposed to hate Rob Zombie, for some reason? And, if you don't, it's like you don't know the “secret knock” and sorry, you're not allowed.) It's this collective mentality that is ruining film criticism. Not only is it yahoos with an Internet connection who can never fully explain why they hate something beyond the superficial, but it's a cult that is trying desperately to kill off any individuality, with hiding-behind-a-computer-force, if applicable.

It seems like this type of violent nerdery is only really present in genre film. No one ever calls another person a “stupid faggot” for liking A ROOM WITH A VIEW over REMAINS OF THE DAY. But, say that you liked BATMAN AND ROBIN over BATMAN BEGINS, like I did, and you might as well be filling every hole on you body with multiple man-roots while wearing a BATMAN shirt with the nipples cut out. Yes, you are that much of a pariah.

But you are right. That's all you want to hear. Type in all caps to let me make sure. Call me an “idiot”. Make a fat joke. Do whatever is necessary to let me know that I am wrong for loving WOLVERINE, even more so than WATCHMEN or, gasp, THE DARK KNIGHT.

I, on the other hand, couldn't give a damn whether or not you agree with me. I am free in that respect, not having to worry if the nerd-trend slave-masters are gonna whip me. You will always be afraid of what is thought of you, and your opinion, so you cannot be trusted as a film critic. You're no better than, say, a professional film critic you gets a paid-ticket junket to write a puff-piece on why Megan Fox is “the hotness” (that's the popular jack-off idol right now, right?).

One thing that I can promise: I will never, ever lie to you about what I like. No matter how embarrassing the general public may want it to be, if I like it, I will honestly tell you. If I hate it, I will honestly tell you. And you can believe it won't be because I'm trying to get some advertising or please a studio.

You need some proof: the Sci-Fi Channel's MEGASNAKE was one of my favorite films of last year. Does that lose me cool points? Fine, just take it down to zero. I'll deal somehow.

So, WOLVERINE.

WOLVERINE delivers. It is every single thing I want in a comic book movie: a clear-cut hero who knows the difference between good and evil, over-the-top fight scenes that have zero basis in reality, multiple cameos by characters from the books, questionable special effects that only heighten the “comic bookiness” of the proceedings...even the opening sequence was cooler than WATCHMEN. The whole time I was watching it, I was sitting up straight in my seat: I care about Wolverine, I care about his origin, I care about his mission...I care. I care about everything this movie put in front of my eyes.

What is it that you didn't like about WOLVERINE? You can pick apart nit-picky things to impress your pals on your podcast, where upon each of you can get into an acidic little pissing contest as to who can hate it more? Oh, Deadpool's origin wasn't what you were used to? They cast a Black-Eyed Pea? Professor X looked a bit too CGI'ed?

All excruciatingly minor, purely needless quibbles. They, in no way once, took you out of a film about a 150+ year old mutant with bone claws who has metal grafted onto them while his psychotic, animalistic brother hunts and steals the powers of other mutants so a crazed army general can create a super-mutant to use as a living weapon. Not. Once. Look, WOLVERINE was extremely entertaining. How can you counter that? Were you not, at any point, entertained fully by WOLVERINE? Was there any moment that you can honestly say that you were bored?

I bet you can't say that about WATCHMEN...

A CRIMSON RIVER OF FLAVA (BIG RED #12): A Poem by Maya Angelouis

A CRIMSON RIVER OF FLAVA (BIG RED #12): A Poem by Maya Angelouis

You are finally available at my local
7 (years of waiting)-11 (years old when I had you last)
Oh, sweet crimson bubbles tickle
You fill my round belly with coldness
Like a cool African river...like a river of blood,
Only this blood is drinkable.

You are my spiritual salvation
20 ounces? 20 OUNCES?
I wish that you came out of my tap,
I wish that I could tap what you come out of...
Osiris beckons.

Made in Texas, but created by the Goddess,
“fizz, fizz, gulp, gulp, burp”

Will you take a check?

STAR TREK: The next resuscitation!!!

STAR TREK
Starring Chris Pine, Zachary Quinto, Leonard Nimoy
Directed by JJ Abrams
Paramount Pictures
by Louis Fowler

To enjoy the new STAR TREK, you have to let go of so many things. Things that will hamper your enjoyment otherwise. Like, well, any love you have for the original series and, to a lesser extent, personal things, like my intense dislike of a certain director. STAR TREK is a movie where, to quote the drunks, you just have to “let go and let God”.

It's a lot like when you get a brand new car: at first, you're so busy trying to keep it cherry that you don't really get to enjoy it. At all. But, somehow, you get that first scratch or ding and then it's like an enormous weight has been lifted. You can finally sit back and go for a dangerous drive without fear. Screw it.

You have to let go of everything you know about STAR TREK to enjoy it and, once that enjoyment sets in, you not only learn to appreciate it as its own thing, but, in a very nerdy way, within the TREK canon. I'll explain this later.

Everyone knows by now that this is a total restart of the series, featuring the obligatory origins of all the characters we know and love, with a fairly standard plot thrown in—about a vengeful Romulan out to implode the Earth via black hole—as an excuse to give you some action. And, to be honest, this little sub-plot might as well be rote, because you want to watch the characters as the are introduced in rapid succession and see how they interact. That's way more interesting than the real plot and every moment of origin is pure screen gold. The Romulan storyline? You've seen it a million times before, but hey, the kids love explosions, right?

Where the plot goes good though is by having Leonard Nimoy, the original Spock, in a way-too-big-to-be-called-a-cameo role that, true to the spirit of the best TREK entries, introduces not only a whole time travel angle, but a surprisingly meta alternate universe angle.

I really haven't seen too many other people discuss this, and if you disagree, please let me know in the most vulgar of terms, but I feel that instead of merely starting over—rebooting or reimagining, whatever the phrase du jour is—director JJ Abrams and screenwriters Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman recognize the original series and then go ahead and create an alternate timeline for these new-but-same characters to thrive in by having numerous canon-altering scenarios presented and then fully acknowledged. Think of it as the episode “Mirror, Mirror” gone good. This type of plot cheat is very STAR TREK—very Kobayashi Maru, if you will.

And not only is the series now in an alternate universe, but this feels like a TREK movie made in an alternate universe. It's charm and likability lies in the fact that it comes off like a hugely budgeted fan-film, with local playhouse drama kids doing their best TREK character impersonations. They are often dead-on and, in the case of Karl Urban's McCoy, at times winking caricatures, but never really disrespectful or jokey. It was actually refreshing to see them try to capture the essence of the original cast's mannerisms, instead of trying to be “arty” and deliver some crazed, avant-garde interpretations.

So, once I accepted the fact this is a very different STAR TREK, I had to deal with JJ Abrams. I just don't like the guy—CLOVERFIELD is one of the, if not THE worst genre movie I have ever had the torture of sitting through and, to make matters worse, the guy has been consistently making pretty jerky comments to TREK fans, going as far as telling them to not “waste” their time or to just “not see the movie”. It's one thing to try to do you own thing, that's great, another to want to bite the hand that feels you just for some frat-boyish “let's screw with the geeks” jollies.

Still, he made a great, entertaining movie.

I call this the “Brett Ratner Conundrum”: sometimes loathsome douchebags do make some good movies that can't denied. Ratner made the RUSH HOUR flicks, fey Joss Whedon made FIREFLY and McG, well, I haven't seen TERMINATOR SALVATION, but is there really any doubt it's going to be awesome? All these directors are just horrible, horrible human beings, but damn if they don't make entertaining movies. Damn this up-to-the-minute internet for telling me about the personal lives of people I shouldn't care in the slightest about!

STAR TREK is a great new start to reignite the ailing franchise, and, even better, it's one of the few ones to get it right. It will easily appeal to old fans who remember and, yeah, worship the originals—and, as my “alternate universe” theory screams, still geeky enough to cause only the nerdiest of comic book store speculation and arguments—yet is mainstream enough to be enjoyed by any random , non-interested moviegoer looking for two-hours of popcorn entertainment. And really, bringing together different people...wasn't that the message of STAR TREK all along?

Dick Van Patten has a line of cat food?!?!

I have no idea where this came from, but yesterday, on my front steps, was a bag of Dick Van Patten's Natural Balance Ultra-Premium Cat Food.

Forget the fact that I don't have a cat and that I don't know who left this there; my big question is this: WHEN DID TV'S DICK VAN PATTEN START HIS OWN LINE OF CAT FOOD??? And, even more so, does slapping his name on the bag really insure bigger sales, than say, Norman Fell? Abe Vigoda? Randolph Mantooth?

Well, his name sells me, and if he has a dog food, I'll be there--EIGHT bags won't be ENOUGH for my Hoogie! In the meantime, if he doesn't, I guess I'll make do with Gabe Kaplan's Meaty Morsels'N'Chunks!

As a nice little bonus, here's a pic of Dick and admitted 12-year painkiller abuser Paula Abdul with a dog!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: I'm at S-T-A-B in Cincinnati!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: I'm at S-T-A-B in Cincinnati!
By Louis Fowler

To travel by airplane, you need seven forms of ID, a retinal scan, and, even after all that, you still can't bring anything over three ounces on board. Like some shaving cream. And, even after you deal with security, when you finally get on, you then have to deal with being trapped in a tube hurtling through the air miles above the Earth, where anything that can go worng will.

On a Greyhound though, there's no security. There's no checking bags. Hell, you can bring three hundred ounces of shaving cream on if you want. All you need is a pulse, and sometimes even that isn't necessary.

Yes, when you decide to “go Greyhound”, you ultimately decide to take your life into your own hands. No matter how much they'd like to church it up, Greyhound is the pre-paid Discover card of travel; anyone can ride the bus cross country, from barely-dressed small children traveling alone and covered in scabs to brown-skinned terrorists who stare intently at your infidel ass.

As a matter of fact, last year, a young man in Canada was decapitated, disemboweled and had his eyeballs devoured by a recently released schizophrenic who believed he was acting on orders from God—you think that shit would happen on Jet Blue? TED? Any random Mexican airline?

Every time I ride Greyhound, as soon as my trip is over I vow never to ever go again, but, as months pass, the idiotic Kerouac-esque wanting to see the land and mingle with its people strikes again, completely forgetting that the land all looks the same and its people are human garbage. This was the case of the middle part of the DEVASTATOR TOUR, as I left Indianapolis and headed to Baltimore via the mighty land-tank, but, of course, the best laid plans and all that...

I should have known that this part of the trip was going to be a living nightmare, as within 15 minutes of Casey dropping me off at the bus station, which was I'm sure quite beautiful at one point in architectural history, while I was excavating my bowels, a dark hand appeared under the stall and tried to grab my bag on the floor. Luckily I had my strap wrapped around my leg and shouted loudly enough for the faceless gent to take off, but, let this be a lesson: sure, they're five bucks, but bus station lockers are your friends.

When my original plans fell through, my first stop of the night was a wonderful 3 AM tour of the Cincinnati bus station. The ride there was pretty bad—as many people know I have an acute horrific case of sleep apnea, so when I fall asleep, I snore quite loudly. Quite vociferously. While everyone else was aloud to sleep and snore their trip away, I was lucky enough to sit in front of a Jabba-esque white trash, well, I guess she was a woman, who kept hitting me in the back of the head and screaming “Wake up, yo! You be snoe-rin!” everytime I nodded off.

This brings me to the type of woman who rides a Greyhound: you know how in movies, whenever they have scenes on a bus, it’s filled with a liberalized cross-section of America, all clean and nice-looking? Well, that's pretty much science-fiction. It's the type of fantasy Anne McCaffrey would write if she had talent.

No, the people on a Greyhound are not attractive by any means and the women...well, there's a certain type that you always see. You've probably have seen these same women in Wal-Mart at one AM, usually with their jelly-stained kids who are wide awake and sucking down a Sam's Choice Cola. Every Wal-Mart has one. They are identified by their year-round attire of frosted denim jean shorts (complete with be-varicosed cellulite jutting out of the legs like bread baking), a 3-XL air-brushed t-shirt of Tweety Bird saying “Talk 2 'da Hand!” which she got at the State Fair and slicked-back hair that is always—ALWAYS—wet. Let's not forget her deodorant of Parliament Low-Tars. She's also usually accompanied by her black boyfriend who's got a hair-lip and badly-done corn-rows.

Yeah, so that was the fat bitch that kept popping me in the back of the head. (Although, I had the last laugh, as the bus left without her. I silently hope that she chased it for about a block before tripping and chipping the rest of her brown teeth on the concrete, slowly succumbing to death's embrace as the bus drives off.)

OK. I digress. Cincinnati. Right.

Now I don't want to judge the whole city based on it's bus station—no one should—but if I were to be a dick and do exactly that, than the city is a scary, dirty, fluorescent nightmare. Sleepy-eyed cops drift off at their posts while a skinny, toothless junkie convulses in the bathroom. The TV blares a middle-of-the-night episode of CSI: MIAMI while an old man wets himself, urine dripping down his leg, puddling on the floor. The smell of poop and nachos waft about in the air.

Now I go back to the story of the decapatationist in Canada. Wherever I go, no one “normal” wants to be my pal. For some reason, the most rejected of society's rejects wants to saddle up with me. In this case, it was a wild-eyed stutterer with stringy red-hair and very few teeth. If he had any ambition, he could have been a Howard Stern Wack-Packer. He made reference to my TOXIC AVENGER shirt and then decided we were to be best friends. If I were into fat whores, he would have been a great cockblocker.

As I went to the “food area” to get myself a rubbery, chewy, bubblegummy BBQ rib sandwich, he followed and watched me as I ate it. I was afraid he was going to ask me for a bite and then rape me. When I finished, I went to the waiting area and plugged in my iPod headphones—the international sign for leave me the fuck alone, please—but, him being mentally deficient, didn't take the hint, and had to make comment about everything David Caruso was doing on-screen. If I didn't reply, he got offended and started to act irritated. He got itchy. He got edgy. He got loud.

Luckily, just as he started to get, you know, stabby, my bus pulled up and off I was to the wonderland of Richmond, Virginia and them on to the Charm City itself, Baltimore. Luckily, with the exception of some gang-toughs getting into a fight with our bus driver somewhere outside Knoxville, and then again in Washington DC, the rest of the way was smoothe-ish sailing.

So, as I write this now, I can easily say that I'll never, ever ride Greyhound again. When I was younger, maybe taking my life into my hands hundreds of miles from anyone who loves me or cares about me was, you know, “cool”, but, as a grown-up with a family and responsibilities, it just seems stupid to do now. I just might as well pay the extra twenty dollars and buy a discount plane ticket from Priceline.

Or, I could take that twenty bucks, beat my wife, eat some Moon Pies, rent some movies from the public library and buy the biggest damn Looney Tunes jersey you've ever seen! In that case, go Greyhound again and again!