DARK MIRROR: Through the looking glass (ceiling)!

DARK MIRROR
Starring Lisa Vidal, David Chisum, Christine Lakin
Directed by Pablo Proenza
IFC Films/Cut Glass Productions
Review by Louis Fowler

Being Hispanic myself, I know I can be overly critical of movies with Latinos in the lead role. We tend to allow ourselves to be embarrassed in ways that would make even AMOS 'N' ANDY say “Seriously fellas, take it down a notch.” Mainstream studios tend to cast us as either gang-bangers or hotel maids and when we actually make our own movie, it's for the lowest common denominator, typically crappy shot-on-video comedies with names like CHULOS IN DA TAQUERIA or SPRING BREAK VATOS, with characters that come off like third-rate Homies figures and with half as much personality. What's wrong with casting a Hispanic as just a regular guy? Maybe an accountant? They just happen to be Hispanic...can we move out of this cinematic barrio, just once?

That's why I really enjoy movies like DARK MIRROR. Not only is it a horror movie that just happens to have a Latina in the lead role, but the plot doesn't have anything to do with it! And because of this, I don't even need to talk about it any further. I can happily treat DARK MIRROR as a scare flick on it's own merits, affirmative action be damned! Luckily, DARK MIRROR is a really good movie, so it's actually easy to do. Thanks for doing my job for me.

Former photographer and now stay-at-home mom Deb is trying to get adjusted to her spooky new home and her family, made up of a whiny son and an indifferent husband, aren't really helping. Even though she can't find a day job to save her life, her camera is working overtime, sucking the souls of whomever it takes a picture of. She starts seeing bloodstains, shadows, footprints and phantom doors in mirrors, which very creepily disappear in and out of her life.

But, really, that doesn't even cover half of what's going on here, and that's why DARK MIRROR works so well: throughout the movie it never once lets you know what it is or what it wants to be. Is it a ghost story? A serial killer flick? A psychological thriller? Deftly mixing a handful of honestly scary moments with one truly unpredictable twist after another, director Pablo Proenza excels in the type of classic filmmaking Polanski did in the 60s—the kind you wish Polanski himself would return to. The whole thing is a thinking man's mind-screw with no easy answers.

Sadly, the film will probably draw too many unfair comparisons to last year's Keifer Sutherland stinker MIRRORS, which is way off the mark, not to mention wholly unoriginal. (Geez, it's like you can't make horror movies with mirrors in them anymore now—thanks Jack Bauer!) Unlike MIRRORS, which was just a whole string of boring cliches bound together with a forced aura of ominousness by director Alexander Aja, DARK MIRROR is an actual genuine attempt at trying to screw with you while scaring you. It's not trying to please the genre crowd with random jump scares—it's trying to tell a story and lets that story unfold. Why is that so wrong?

The cast is great, especially Lisa Vidal as the aforementioned Deb—it's pretty much her show to carry and, when the ending is uncovered, without giving away any spoilers, you'll fully realize the whole power of her performance, because, man, I had no clue. None. (Also of note, veteran character actress Lupe Ontiveros has a great little cameo as Deb's mom; I mention this because it freaks me out just how much she looks and sounds like my own grandma who's also named—DUN DUN DUUUUUN—Lupe. It's like looking into my own dark mirror, if you will.)

With so much horror this year just absolutely scraping the depths—one teen-marketed pile of crap after another that just continues to infuriate me—it's great to actually sit down and enjoy a movie like DARK MIRROR: a mature, thought-out scare film that doesn't talk down to me or treat me like an imbecile. That's all I ask.

RISE OF THE SCARECROWS: The return of backyard cinema!

RISE OF THE SCARECROWS
Starring Steven Joseph Adams, Cedric Howard, Jeremy Weiskotten
Directed by Geno McGahee and Jeremy Weiskotten
Tempe Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

As soon as this movie starts and that wonderful shot-on-video looks washes over the screen, a wave of nostalgia showers me. Growing up in the mid-90s, my local neighborhood indie video store was packed with early Tempe and EI flicks by the likes of Todd Sheets and JR Bookwalter. All shot in their backyards on shoestring budgets with hand-held cameras, they were inspirational works of art to me.

Now, with digital video making everything look so slick, to see a homemade movie like this again already puts RISE OF THE SCARECROWS on my good side. It's so random and so wonderfully overacted that you can't take your off off the screen, you can't stop watching. You want to see what happens next, you want to try to figure out what's going on. While in a mainstream film that would be classified as a bad thing, here, it makes the film even better.

A Tracy Morgan lookalike living in the woods tells us that the local sheriff killed some construction workers a few years back and, seeking revenge, they've came back as demon-possessed zombie scarecrows. So far, so good, but directors Geno McGahee and Jeremy Weiskotten aren't happy with this straight horror set-up, so they throw in ample helpings of insanity: a chunky jerk looking at tranny porn air-punches his Vietnamese wife with a phone, an obese kid flips off a local curmudgeon trying to make some coffee and an Amish-ish fellow trying to sell “taters” gets his TV tray of sellable veggies flipped over for no reason by an a-hole city slicker. At times I felt like I was watching a GUMMO fan-film, and I mean that as a compliment. Seriously.

RISE OF THE SCARECROWS, for all its limitations, is extremely inventive and bizarre and crazy and random and fun and memorable enough to warrant numerous late-night viewings. Just like those late-nights when I was a kid, staying up watching these flicks, then going into my own backyard the next day with a video-camera to emulate them. Keep the dream alive, fellas!

DARK REEL: I need a new screener, ASAP!

DARK REEL
Starring Lance Henrikson, Edward Furlong, Tiffany Shepis,
Directed by Josh Eisenstadt
Barnholtz Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

With most movies, there is a point A to point B. You know the tone, you know the plot and you know what to expect. These are safe films, these are crowd-pleasers. You're allowed to get comfortable. You're allowed to turn off you brain, enjoy the explosions, stabbing and boobs. You know what you're getting, and it's typically all you want.

But, some movies just want to screw with you. To mess with you. They are like that annoying five-year-old little sister that puts her grimy hand an inch from your face and says “Can't do anything, not touching you!” That's what DARK REEL is. One second you think it's a noir murder mystery, the next a goofy Hollywood satire and then a brutal slasher flick. It never settles for a straight categorization and, while maddening at first, eventually becomes not only welcomed, but damn near endearing.

DARK REEL starts off with a heinous, limb-chopping murder in classic black and white Hollywood. A young actress, thinking she's getting a screen test, is cut up for the camera as the credits role. It's gory and horrific. It sets a tone. This is going to be a HOLLYWOOD BABYLON mystery, right? Right? Well...no.

It moves forward fifty-or-so years to the apartment of lonely genre fan Adam (a sleepy-eyed Edward Furlong) who wins a walk-on role in a pirate movie starring Cassie Blue (the always entertaining Tiffany Shepis). The crew is filled with one comically exaggerated character after another—including a Shakespearean leading man obsessed with eating onions—and, if this collection of loons wasn't enough, the movie is band-rolled by suicidal studio head Lance Henrikson.

Cassie and Adam hit it off immediately—albeit wholly unrealistically—just as a slasher in an extremely spooky 'n' flashy “starlet” mask starts offing the cast one by one in a way similar to that of the aforementioned murdered actress. Meanwhile, veteran character actor Tracey Walter shows up as a creepy paparazzi, Adam and Cassie have hot sex and Adam starts to see the ghost of the dead starlet on the pirate movie's dailies.

So, just when they are going to delve deeper into the mystery...with thirty minutes left to go, UGH, the screener craps out on me. I tried in in three DVD players and an XBOX 360 and nothing. Zero. Adam and Cassie are watching dailies, footsteps, then a frozen screen. NOOOOOO!

The questions that are running through my head right now! Who is the masked killer? Why is there a ghost? Why did the studio guy kill her? Is Furlong coming down off a week-long tweak or is he crazy? Will he bang Tiffany Shepis again? Was this all an elaborate joke? Are detectives Tony Todd and Rena Riffel secretly stripper “hot cops” who will rip off their velcro-pants in the final scene? WHAT IS GOING ON? WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN??

I may never know, and that really, really brings me down, man. I immediately went to my local Blockbuster, and they didn't have it. I almost reinstated my NetFlix account. If I wasn't a good, law-abiding citizen, I'd have illegally downloaded it. Instead, it looks like I am going to buy a copy off of Amazon when I get a few bucks...I need to finish this movie.

From what I did see though, this is the type of flick that you are completely glued to, eyes unblinking, jaw agape. It's such a mixture of good mystery and cheesy horror, walking a thin line between broad comedy and brutal horror, almost creating a genre unto itself. Everything in REEL seems to be in its own reality, either over-exaggerated or mean-spirited, sometimes both, but always entirely entertaining.

But even more than the story, what makes the movie so watchable are the actors; the performances are downright bizarre, in a good way as well. Everyone seems to be in different movies, or not even knowing that the camera is rolling. Henrikson is gleefully entering the Christopher Walken self-parody phase of his career, while Furlong seems to be making it all up as he goes along. Tony Todd (the CANDYMAN himself) and Rena Riffel (the best part of SHOWGIRLS, if you ask me) show up as a duo of cop-ish types with quirky personalities that steal the show everytime they are on-screen and, most incredibly, the always watchable Tiffany Shepis delivers the only real dramatic performance of the film, but I don't know if she knows it. This casting is a recipe for a bizarro classic!

Not only do you need to see DARK REEL, I need to see it again as well. I almost want to find or create a forum of some sort to discuss it; I want to know how other people are going to interpret it, because I am still at a loss! I'll keep you updated...

BLACK DEVIL DOLL: Black is beautiful! Power to the puppet!

BLACK DEVIL DOLL
Starring Heather Murphy, Natasha Talonz, Christine Svendsen
Directed by Jonathan Lewis
Rotten Cotton
Review by Louis Fowler

I like my movies like I like my coffee: strong, black and violating dead white women.

OK, so that's a lie. I don't like coffee. But I do love the hilariously daring and viciously offensive low-budget blaxploitation-horror-comedy BLACK DEVIL DOLL, which achieves all these aforementioned things in spades, no pun intended. I can easily say, without reservation, this is going to be my favorite film of the year. This isn't some novelty genre mash-up: this is a new trash classic that will become the ultimate party film—even if that party is just you and your equally geeky cine-buddy sitting around downing grape Shastas and scarfing fried grilled chicken.

But where is the press for it? Where is the fandom from the genre community? Is your liberal white guilt telling you over and over to ignore it? On many of the horror websites and magazines I write for, everyone is creaming their jeans over such super-serious slash ultra-pretentious masturbatory fare as the brutally graphic (and brutally unlikable) torture-fest MARTYRS or the emo-Swedish pedophile-vamp downer LET THE RIGHT ONE IN. Literally...creaming. While I'm sure those are “classy” meditations on man's inhumanity to man and so on, sweet Lord are they boring! You can have them! They are not “entertaining”. No matter how you slice them, they are struggles and chores to sit through. You watch them once and forget about them. You set it and forget it!

Sure, when I watch horror films I like my blood and gore as much as the next guy, but I also want laughs. And Russ Meyer boobs. And offensive racial humor. And, if possible, some salad tossing. Why is this so difficult to get? Why is this so much to ask for? And why are films that deliver this looked down upon? BLACK DEVIL DOLL has more inventiveness, style and pure love for the blaxploitation 'n' horror 'n' nudie genres than any of those recently lauded films—or, well, really any films in current circulation really—combined. DOLL goes out of it's way to entertain you, to shock you, to make you laugh. It succeed on every level. I can already tell you're gonna hate it...

A militant black activist, just put to death in the Big House for killing numerous Caucasian women, is miraculously brought back to life in a plastic “dummy” that resembles Lester (of Willie Tyler fame) after reading the complete works of Iceberg Slim. The doll belongs to the wonderfully voluptuous Heather, who has no problem accepting the Black Devil Doll into her heart and womb, as they have numerous carnal couplings that not only rivals but obliterates the puppet-sex in TEAM AMERICA. Soon enough, the Doll's blood-lust for dead white women returns and Heather invites her equally mega-super-bosomed pals over for some car-washing and showering and bathing and boob cleanings. The amount of puppet-semen spilled during these scenes is immeasurable but very important to the plot. Very. You'll never stick your hand up a puppet's ass the same way again!

In the past, I've usually had to go to Troma for this kind of hilariously sick entertainment and, to be fair, POULTRYGEIST was my favorite film of last year. But, as a generation weaned on this type of low-to-no budget horror-humor comes into it's own—a cooler generation with a working fringe sense of humor and an understanding of genre before the TWILIGHT revolution—we're starting to see more young filmmakers make their own push-it-to-the-limit flicks. And leading the pack is Jonathan Lewis, the director who I am convinced is the bloody butt-baby of Rudy Ray Moore and Lloyd Kaufman. (I'm sure he'll take that as a compliment.) Get out of this guy's way, because he is gonna cut you!

Now I know that the racial humor will be the ultimate sticky-wicket for most viewers. Most of today's kids have been raised by a media and pop culture that refuses to let us laugh at our differences and stereotypes, except in the simplest of terms, like, say, in movies such as SOUL PLANE or whatever the Wayans Brothers are currently excreting into our cineplexes. It's never anything, you know, deep. Never anything that pushes the limits. BLACK DEVIL DOLL doesn't push the limits, it pisses on them.

It's almost like you can't get away with destroying boundaries—especially racial boundaries—anymore because of the hyper-sensitive WHITE politicos who think that we should keep this stuff hidden behind a curtain, never to be seen, never to be acknowledged, even in the name of subversive comedy. They're the ones who chastise Chris Rock for being too “edgy”. I like to think that this is director Lewis's, who is black, mind you, way of gleefully shoving his ebony middle-finger in their faces, telling them to get their asses back to their hypocritical gated community if they can't take the joke. Close the shades, lock the doors and put 9-1-1 on the speed dial, because the scary black man is laughing at you—not with you—and having his way with your daughter! (Oh God, I don't even want to go into what the feminists will think about this movie...needless to say they'll be twice as humorless about it.)

Contrary to what Mr. Scott-Heron believes, the revolution will most definitely be televised and this will be shown on repeat. See BLACK DEVIL DOLL by any means necessary or be left behind, honky!

THE LANDLORD: If you watched this movie, you'd be home by now!

THE LANDLORD
Starring Derek Dziak, Rom Barkhordar, Michelle Courvais
Directed by Emil Hyde
Massive Ego Productions
Review by Louis Fowler

This seals the deal. I'm officially through with Hollywood's idea of a horror-comedy. Sorry, but they just don't “get it” the way the current crop of shoestring-budget filmmakers do. First BLACK DEVIL DOLL sets my mood, and now, THE LANDLORD—the best demon-possession real estate comedy since BEETLEJUICE—has cemented this. I laughed so hard I dribbled cola down the front of my pants and it looked like I wet myself. And then I did wet myself. But I didn't care. I happily just wallowed in my sticky-crotchness, guffawing like an imbecile. It's takes one Hell of a funny film to zap away whatever pride I had in appearance away like that!

Archetypal slacker Tyler runs a sweet apartment building—hardwood floors, spacious living room, lots of windows, all bills paid—that also just happens to house a pair of demons, one a dog-faced Queen of the Dead and the other her cynical lackey, Rabisu, who both feast on the apartment's tenants. While all this is going on, Tyler's rotten-cop sister has recruited other demons, who are to be walking among us, to do her job for her: they kill and eat drug-dealers and other criminal types while the cops collect the dirty money. The trouble starts when a cute chick moves into the building and Tyler falls for her, much to the chagrin of the demonic duo.

The heart of the movie is in the hilarious banter and genuine camaraderie between Tyler and the Queen's slave Rabisu. Everytime they are on-screen together, bickering like an old demonic Odd Couple, the affable Tyler having to deal with Rabisu's bloody screw-ups and Rabisu's growing disdain for his boss—it's pure comic gold. I am sincerely wishing, hoping and praying that director Emil Hyde develops a TV pilot for these two; imagine THREE'S COMPANY meets BUFFY but, only, you know, funny! Better yet, how about a road-trip flick with these two? Whatever you want, Mr. Hyde, I don't care—I just want more of these two characters! This is a franchise comedy team not seen since the likes of, geez, Farley and Spade. No lie. But, until that follow-up comes along though, I'll happily re-sign my lease with THE LANDLORD, and I don't even mind not getting my security deposit back.

ONE-EYED MONSTER: A Ron Jeremy Double-Sized Double Feature, Part Two!!!

ONE-EYED MONSTER
Starring Ron Jeremy, Veronica Hart, Amber Benson
Directed by Adam Fields
Liberation Entertainment
Review by Louis Fowler

Why isn't Ron Jeremy a bigger (no pun intended) star?

Sure, you can go ahead and blather on about morals, decency and all that other stuff that people typically say stops porn stars from crossing over into the mainstream, but Jeremy is already such a sellable household name that, if given one shot, like a sitcom, for instance, he could have a second career—which I'm sure is actually the first career he's always wanted. Sure, he'll always be referenced for his 9 ¾ inch penis, but hey, there could be worse stereotypes.

Either way, the hilarious horror-comedy ONE-EYED MONSTER is a step in the right erection, um, I mean direction.

While shooting an unassuming skin flick in the mountains, while he is urinating, an alien life form falls from the sky and possesses Ron Jeremy's penis—and only his penis. The elongated shaft, fueled with a thirst for blood, goes on a killing spree, invading mouths and other orifices, looking for a host to impregnate. Jeremy dies off quickly while the detached member scuttles around the cabin, burrowing under the snow and darting through the air, offing (and getting off on) the crew one-by-one, hilariousness ensuing.

It's really great to see that director Adam Fields has fun with this, riffing on numerous horror clichés—such as when a slimy substance drips from the ceiling, only to be revealed as, well, I'm sure you know—subtly parodying now-famous set-pieces from other invader flicks like ALIEN, THE THING, TREMORS, SLITHER...well, I guess any monster movie of the past thirty years that feature a smooth, cylindrical object entering the human body with sploshy results.

After a string of recent lower-budgeted horror flicks “starring” Jeremy, coupled with the probably-already-is-a-porno title, you walk into MONSTER expecting something totally different than what you actually get, things such as high production values, great special effects, competent acting, restrained sex, humor that works...basically everything that's the complete opposite of just about every porno film in existence! It's all the thrill, none of the spill! I appreciate that.

And while, yes, the cast is expendable enough, my main complaint—and really only complaint—would be not enough Jeremy. When he's on the screen, delivering his groan-inducing one-liners, he's so likable that you want him to survive, maybe even go head-to-head with his own member. And let's not forget his great chemistry with Veronica Hart—speaking of which, I want to make special note about the female porn veteran here: sure, everyone talks about Helen Mirren being a hot granny, but, sorry, Veronica Hart gives her a run for her money! GILFS of the world unite!

ONE-EYED MONSTER is one of the funniest horror-comedies to come along in quite a while. It's so good to be able to relax and enjoy a monster movie that just wants to have fun without any winking shaky camera-work pretension or needless dramatic attempts at an Oscar clip. MONSTER want you to just sit back and take it all in—not too deep—but just enough to make you smile.

PORN-O-RAMA: A Ron Jeremy Double-Sized Double Feature, Part One!!!

PORN-O-RAMA: ON SET WITH PORN'S BIGGEST STARS
Hosted by Ron Jeremy and Alexis DeVell
Directed by Paul Norman
Private Screening Collection
Review by Louis Fowler

I know I may be alone in this, but I am much more fascinated by the world of porn filmmaking than I am by the actual watching of porn films. Let's be honest: most skin flicks are boring, tedious affairs that most people don't need to watch longer than five minutes. If you've seen one porn, you've pretty much seen them all. But the deep inside world of porn, the ins-n-outs, so to speak...well that's utterly enthralling to me.

PORN-O-RAMA is a five episode docu-tainment-umentary about the triple-X business, but, from the point of view of the industry, which is something you rarely, if ever see. It's very much like a “sexy” episode of ENTERTAINMENT TONIGHT (Ejaculation Tonight? Excess Hollywood? The Inside Her?) crossed with an ExstenZ infomercial, yet all filmed with that obvious pornographer's touch: in the first three minutes of the first episode, we've already had awesomely bad synth music, cheap video titling, minimal sets and at least ten mullets, four of them on women. This is what TV would be like if it were ran by the adult industry..and I like it!

Datedly filmed in the early 90s, hosts Ron Jeremy and Alexis DeVell interview “stars” in only the charmingly shallowest of ways—most questions end up being “Do you like anal sex?” and “Do you ever squirt on film?”—and while they aren't the most interesting of queries, it's the answers that are intriguing. To see dead-eyed actresses trying to give a sexy answer while simultaneously crying for help....well, that's great entertainment!

Highlights include: the Tommy Hilfiger-esque Peter North, in a zombie-like state, describing his “pop-shot” status; Ron Jeremy pointing out some “crusty” semen on an actress' chest; a drunk actor, misusing his fingers, causes an actress (with very bad skin) to internally bleed; Massengill vinegar and water douches receive prime product placement; an angry director quote-worthingly says that an actor's pre-mature ejaculation is like “leaving the office four hours early”—and still, I must reiterate, this is just the first episode! There's still four more to go!

The remaining episodes deal with how the porn stars families deal with topics such as if their family knows what they do, other jobs they might have and how they deal with messy anal discharges. Classy! Jeremy is an affable host, as always, getting in a few good zingers here and there, but co-host DeVell is a total non-entity, with her displeasure of even being in the same vicinity as Jeremy quite evident. Pretty bitchy, if you ask me, but, hey, where is she now? Exactly.

Actually, that's one of the funniest things about PORNORAMA: the men interviewed, most notably Peter North, Tom Byron and the aforementioned Jeremy, are still working, hard, while none of the actresses, with probably the exception of Shayla LeVaux, were ever heard from again! In a surely unrealized act of meta-film, most of the action seems to take place on director Paul Norman's porn films, which he appears to be shooting concurrently to this doc. (Norman, by the way, is probably most famous for directing EDWARD PENISHANDS.) A case of shameless self-promotion? Yes, but, if it works for mainstream film, add some boobs and it'll work twice as good for porn! Too bad it didn't catch on...

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Baltimore, Hungover Gourmet-Style!

DEVASTATOR TOUR '09: Baltimore, Hungover Gourmet-Style!
By Louis Fowler

A lot of times, when you take a vacation, you fall in love with a city in such a way that you actually consider moving there, simply because it's not the boring lame old city you're currently stuck in. It's like falling in love with another girl while you're in a serious, committed relationship with another. You're a jerk, you're a prick, you're a monster and you want a way out.

I couldn't help but feel that way about Baltimore. It will forever be my mistress city. Sorry, OKC.

If you remember, I had crashed at Atomic TV impresario Tom Warner's house the previous night. He had left for work early, leaving me to my own devices. Luckily my devices included more sleeping. I woke up just in time to catch a shower and wait for my good friend, Dan Taylor, of HUNGOVER GOURMET fame, to swing by and get me. He had promised a day or so of food, folks and fun, and, yes, he delivered on that McDonaldsy trifecta.

I expected Dan to be a short squat fellow, maybe weighing in at a deuce, deuce and a half, at best. I mean, c'mon: he does a food blog AND loves B-movies. Look at me for further proof of this stereotype. Sadly, Dan is actually a very tall, mostly in-shape fellow who cuts a very mild-mannered, Clark Kent-ish presence; very calming, very relaxing and very safe. I'm sure that even when he's angry and cursing, he's very soothing when he does it. I wish he'd record a series of relaxation tapes to help people quit smoking.

Being the Hungover Gourmet, of course, I charged him with one mission: get me some food that is not only wholly representative of Baltimore cuisine, but food that, because I'm on vacation and my wife and doctor are nowhere in sight, might also kill me. Thankfully, that's all Baltimore food.

With his adorable toddler in tow, we hit up an area of town known as “Corn Beef Row”. I would love to move to a city with a Corn Beef Row. The one deli Dan wanted to take me to was supposedly extremely famous for their corn beef, it was what they did best. But, as we trudged through their muddy parking lot, a guy carrying out a fifteen-foot party sub told us that they were closed for renovations, but that they should be open in about an hour.

OK, so when have you known renovations to finish in a hour? Something was fishy and, as we later learned, we were right! Apparently, earlier on the local news, the establishment had been shut down by the city for a horrendous rat infestation.

And all it took to clear it up was sixty minutes.

Now I don't mind a little rat feces—if you've seen the places in Mexico I've eaten tacos out of, you'd know that about me—but I was hungry for corn beef, dammit, so we walked up the road to the second best corn beef place in town, Lenny's.

Lenny's is a lot like your high school cafeteria if it were run by exceedingly surly employees who want you to get your damn food and get the hell out of their damn line. NOW! That's the kind of service I like though: no nonsense, no small-talk, all business. I wish more restaurants would follow this lead. “Here's you're food, later bro.”



The corn beef at Lenny's, by the way, was phenomenal and I really wanted to order two of them. If Dan was a fat ass, I honestly would have, but, instead, he had to be fit, so I had to pretend like one was enough. But I could've had two. Easy.

***

After a short battery recharge, we headed to the hipper part of town—yes, hipper than Corn Beef Row. The hip part of town that houses cool bars, cool eateries, cool resale shops, cool curio stores and, best of all, my Mecca, the cool book store known as Atomic Books.

Now while I'm sure the Atomic Books of yore, back when it was dirty 'n' scuzzy 'n' nasty was really something to behold, this new era of Atomic Books ain't nothing to scoff at. I wish this was a chain, I wish there was one of these in my town. I would spend so much money there. I almost did spend all of my money there. After all, where else can I get zines fresh off the press anymore? Please tell me! There is no place, besides Atomic, to do just that.

Looking at their racks, filled with one indie mag after another, I was hit with a rush of overwhelmingness. I was in sensory overload. Hurriedly, as if they were going to disappear at any moment, I picked up copies of CONSPIRACY JOURNAL, CASHIERS DU CINEMART and CINEMA SEWER, among others.

I also bought my new favorite shirt of all time. Screw you New York Tourist Board!

Afterwards, on a whim, we also stopped at a thrift store that had a window full of dollar records. As many of you know, Louis + Dollar Records = Destruction to Your Hearing on Tuesday! Yes, for only a measly buck each, I found such treasures as:

* The Fat Boys' maxi-single for their hit “Wipeout!”, featuring the heads of the Beach Boys on the cover! They're visibly embarrassed!

* HEAR 'N AID, the hair metal answer to Live Aid, featuring such rock luminaries as Carmine and Vinny Appice, Chris Holmes, Buck Dharma, Yngwie Malmsteen and George Lynch, all in an effort to end African famine. They failed.

* “Sexcrime (Nineteen Eighty-Four)”, another maxi-single, this time by Eurythmics and released as a tie-in to their soundtrack to the bleak, hopeless 1984 adaptation of Orwell's novel. Yes, Eurythmics did the music. WTF?

* In my attempt to collect everything Village People, I found a break-dancing fad tie-in, appropriately called BREAK MACHINE, produced by Jacques Morali, the studio Svengali responsible for creating and bring the Village People to fame. The album, by the way, brought me to tears.

* And, best of all, a three-record collection called GARY OWENS MUSIC WEEKEND 7/2/88, which was, I'm guessing, Gary Owens' weekend music show, pre-recorded and ready for lazy radio stations to spin on a Saturday afternoon. It has hits from Chicago, Toto, Debbie Gibson, a Moody Blues “Mini-Concert”, interviews with Robin Leach and Dan Aykroyd, Guess what? Next time I go on vacation, this is what you DAMAGED Hearing listeners are getting. Lucky you.

On the way back to Dan's house, by the way, we saw a truck with a spray-painted mural of Freddy Krueger on the tailgate. It was awesome and I would love a tattoo of it on my chest.



***

When I asked Dan to show me the best Baltimore has to offer, it came with a caveat, of sorts: I wanted to try some big, juicy, fried, zesty crab cakes. Maybe you Baltimorons take them for granted because you can walk into any corner convenience store and get them right off the rack where, in other parts of the country hot dogs would be, but for me, it's a big deal. I want and need crab cakes. I want and need a city where they are available to me at all times.

I can't rightly remember if Dan said that he'd been there before or not, but his pick for the most representative Baltimore restaurant, which, I can honestly say is the ultimate travelogue, a living mural, for all of you planning a visit to the Charm City: Michael's Steak and Lobster House, in the dread town of Dundalk. It is also my new favorite (white people) place of all time to eat. No foolin'!

The building is highly unassuming, almost dive-like. Wood paneling, the kind you find in your downstairs rumpus room, covers the walls and, like Lenny's, the staff are surly and don't take any of your crap. Dan and I went with SMILE HON, YOU'RE IN BALTIMORE editor William Tandy, who I'm sure after five minutes of meeting me was all like “Settle down, dude. You'll get your crab-cakes! Get a grip!”. But he was nice enough not to say it out loud.

Since I was on vacation, I though, hey, what the Hell, I'm going to get an app. (Appetizer, for those not in the know.) As I asked of charmingly Flo-like waitress to describe clams casino, she threw me a chuckle that said “Ha. Who is this yokel?” Regardless, I ordered a plate of clams casino, which are chopped-up clams, mixed with bacon and sautéed in butter, then served in a half-shell.



In short, it's the greatest (white people) appetizer I've ever had. I wish they served this in movie theaters. I wish that Wal-Mart had these next to the check-out line. I would pop these like there was no tomorrow, which, if I did, I'm sure there wouldn't be. For my main course, I ordered the crab cakes, of course, and while they were great, I still wanted some more clams casino. I wanted to try some oysters casino. I wanted everything served casino-style. I almost sent my crab cakes back, asking for them to be recooked, casino-style, I don't care what the cost.

As we ate, I absorbed the wonderfully unpretentious, insanely non-hipster surroundings. These are the types of places I adore. A SOPRANOS-like father and son duo argue about the price of a martini, while men in tracksuits and gold-chains laugh as they try to eat as much $16.95 40 oz. Porterhouse as possible. These are my people. These are people I don't have to impress and they don't feel the need to impress me. If the Decemberists were to walk in there, I think we would all have a good old fashioned beat-down on them, and the cops would look the other way. I want to move to Dundalk. I want to be a Dundalkian.



The ride home was a belt-loosening one, the slumber on Dan's guest room daybed, heavenly. I needed all the sleep I could get: not only in the morning were pork rolls waiting for me, but so was the city of Cleveland. Cinema Wasteland...look out!

DAMAGED Goods: Doritos Late Night -- Tacos At Midnight!!!

For years, with all their undeliverable promises of flavor, I've learned never to trust a chip's name, especially when they put the flavor in that name. I have been burned repeatedly so, when I see a new flavor of Doritos with the word “taco” in the name, I circle it apprehensively like a dog that's been kicked one too many times by it's drunken, abusive owner. Yeah, tacos, right? I bet. If anything they probably just sprinkled some Lawry's taco seasoning in a bag, shook it up and sealed it. Right?

Wrong!

I can't believe it but whoever the scientists are that developed this new “Tacos At Midnight”, let's give them the Nobel Prize! Sorry, cancer doctors! I don't know how they did it, but they have successfully created a tortilla chip that really, honestly, successfully tastes like a taco. A real taco—cheese, shell, meat, seasonings, maybe some lettuce and tomatoes, it's all here! It's like eating that Wonka candy that is a whole meal (the one that turned that chick into a blueberry), only instead of Oompa Loompas, the factory is run by Mexicans! Tiny little Mexicans who sing “Hola, dola, hoopity doo, you quiero tacos, how about you?” I want to win this Doritos factory from Mr. Guillermo Wonka. I want to bathe in these Doritos. I want to marry these Doritos. I want to pro-create with them and have little baby Tacos At Midnight.

Actually, now I just want some tacos...