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September 27, 2002
How To Go To the Grocery Store
First, make a list. Get a piece of paper and write down all the things you need. Ask your shackup if there?s anything he?d like to add to the list.
Get a bigger piece of paper and start over, combining your list with the 5,000 items that you forgot until your shackup mentioned them.
Realize that you forgot cleaning supplies and paper goods. Scribble these items onto the back of an envelope.
Using your list as a reference, go through your coupons to see if there?s anything you can save money on.
Throw out all your coupons when you realize they expired two days after you got them. Find two coupons you can use, if you buy that other kind of soy milk in the funny container which fills you with a vague unease.
Get the cart from behind the door. Realize that cart makes horrible, banshee-like squeaking noise. Remember the funny looks people gave you in the grocery store that other time. Spend twenty minutes searching for WD-40.
Add WD-40 to grocery list. Oil wheels of cart with sewing machine oil.
Commence to the store. Curse the bumpiness of the sidewalks, the bizarre sequence of Bostonian traffic lights, and the inability of people walking in pairs to step aside for ONE SINGLE SECOND to let you pass. Practice your testy sighs and dirty looks. You will need them.
Arrive at your destination. Wait for the person standing in the doorway and leaning over to select a shopping basket to move out of the way.
Sigh, testily.
Wonder what exactly is so difficult about the selection of a shopping basket that you never noticed before.
Roll your eyes.
Mutter ?Finally!? under your breath and enter the store.
Realize that all of the shopping baskets are a) broken, b) melted, or c) sitting in a puddle of liquefied spinach and floor cleaner.
Refuse to forgive the person in front of you on the grounds that to do so would be a sign of weakness. Select the least hideous shopping basket and balance it haphazardly in your cart.
Get out your list. Traverse the grocery store, aisle by aisle, acquiring goods. Note the reluctance of others to follow grocery store etiquette by adhering to commonly accepted traffic laws: Aisle 1 up, Aisle 2 down, etc.
Note another unfortunate habit held by many patrons, of perusing the shelves on one side of an aisle while clinging with one hand to their grocery cart, parked directly across from them. Attempt to point out to one such patron that this causes the aisle to be, in essence, blocked. Further reveal that this makes it difficult for you to perform your shopping. Attempt to gently insinuate that perhaps the shopper holds the power to change this situation for the better.
Receive a blank and hostile stare from your fellow man.
Emit a testy sigh. Produce a baleful glare.
Truck down the newly vacated aisle. With trepidation, select the very last bottle of the questionable soy milk for which you have a coupon, slightly dirty and battered from its adventures, but seemingly intact.
Gaze longingly at the tempting packaged frozen treats in the last aisle. Refrain from selecting them because you are saving money. Feel virtuous.
End your trip to the grocery store walking. verrrrry. slooooowly. down the bread aisle, behind a young child who is meticulously zigzagging his cart right to left across the aisle at a 30-degree angle, while his mother stands at the end of the lane and whimpers, ?Damien, honey, come on, Mommy?s in a hurry. We have to go, Damien? I mean it! Stop playing around, okay? Please??
Lose the kid when he gets hung up on the bagel display and tear towards the registers. For fun, practice your ?Accidentally-on-purpose Bodycheck? maneuver on ?Mommy.? Fail to fool anyone. Hightail it towards the nearest line before the police are summoned.
Wait for the person three customers in front of you to write a check. Wait for a price check. Wait for the compatriot of the person two in front of you to come back with the right kind of soup. Wait for the person once removed from you to realize that their groceries are being rung up along with those of the person in front of them. Wait for the manager to come with the void key.
Get ready to be a good customer. Prepare your bank card and the grocery card which entitles you to discounts. Look in your wallet for your coupons. Realize that your coupons are sitting in the kitchen at home. Remember that they expire tomorrow. Curse the soy milk.
Wait as the person in front of you has his purchases rung up. Wait for him to move his cart forward, so that you may have access to the rapidly appearing space on the conveyor belt.
Sigh testily. Watch the inaccessible space on the conveyor belt grow larger. Watch the person in front of you emerge from his deep coma and realize that the clerk is now awaiting payment. Move forward.
Place your groceries on the conveyor belt in careful order, heaviest first, frozen goods together. Place your apples with tender devotion upon the belt, just ahead of the smushable bread and chip category.
Bustle towards the front of the register, waiting to grab your groceries and put them into bags in the accepted order. Succeed with the heavy unbreakable items. Reluctantly cede this duty to a grocery store employee when the time to make your payment approaches.
Observe as the grocery store clerk lifts your apples, tosses them upon the scale, and hurls them down the belt towards the bagger. Wince in agony as you hear your apples thud against the metal. Cringe as the bagger tosses a can of beans in on top of the apples.
Note the total charge. Say, ?There must be some mistake. You see, I only purchased one of each item.?
Receive a blank stare. Sigh testily. Relinquish your bank card, although it clings, screaming, to your palm.
Retrieve your receipt and your sweating, crying, bleeding bank card from the clerk. Say, ?Thank you.?
Rattle home with your cart, its banshee wail now restored thanks to the 500 pounds of groceries inside. Remember that you forgot the WD-40. Remember that you forgot all of the non-food household goods. Calculate how long this week?s Boston Phoenix can be used as a substitute for napkins. Realize, smugly, that you?ll be fine until it?s your shackup?s turn to go shopping.
Arrive home. Put away the groceries. Read the Last Rites for your apples.
Realize that it is now dinnertime. Look in the kitchen. Realize that despite the fact that your refrigerator and cupboards are groaning with supplies, you somehow managed to avoid purchasing the components for even one entire meal.
Order pizza. Pretend to be shocked that you can?t pay with your bank card.
Posted by hilatron at 02:20 PM | Comments (7)
September 22, 2002
Correspondence #2, or, things I should have thought up at the time.
Dear Guy Who Yelled Out of His Car Window This Afternoon,
"Incomprehensible Gibberish" to you, too!
Sincerely,
Hilatron
---
Dear Other Guy Who Yelled Out of His Car Window Another Time,
Why, thank you. I'm glad you think I'm a nice person. That's what you meant by "nice," right? Although I can't imagine how you knew that, what with us having never spoken and all, it is heartwarming that you feel there's something about me that just exudes niceness. Of course, you could have been passing judgement on my personal appearance, I suppose. But that seems unlikely. I mean, what kind of buffoon would imagine that I give a fig whether he deems one or more of my physical characteristics "nice" or not? And furthermore, if you're going to rate me, at least try to find a better adjective than that blandest of descriptors, "nice." Jeeze. So that couldn't be what you meant. Thanks for the compliment. I think you're very...outgoing.
All my best,
Hilatron
---
Dear Number of Guys Who Have Said "Hey, Red" (and formerly, "Hey, Blondie") to Me,
Um. Very...observant of you.
Cheers,
Hilatron
Cc: Guys Who Say Things Like, "That's a Blue Shirt.*"
---
Dear Number of Other Guys Who Have Instructed Me to Smile,
I can only assume that you like to see people scowling for some reason, because there is nothing less likely to make me smile than having someone suddenly leap into my range of vision and demand one, as I am toodling about my day. If I felt like smiling, I already would be. If you're going to interrupt my train of thought with this goal, then at least make the effort to think up a joke or something. You only need one, because believe me, women will not be mentioning you to each other in casual conversation.
Yours,
Hilatron
---
Dear Guys Who Say "But I'm Giving You a Compliment! What's the Problem?",
Here is the problem. When I am walking hither and thither, doing my thing, chances are that I am not lonely, or seeking reassurance. Chances are that I am thinking thoughts, or singing songs in my head, or figuring out how to solve the problems of the world. I am in a groove, as it were. When you intrude upon my consciousness with your "compliment," you interrupt the groove. And my groove, let me assure you, is sacred. Disruptions in the groove cause distress, upheaval, and in some cases, injury. Let me clarify: the injury is not to me. Do you really want to be a part of that?
Problem Part 2: it has been noted that in almost all cases, the Guys addressed above are with compatriots. There is a certain something in the air during these interactions which causes me to believe that the goal of the Guy is not, in fact, to improve my self-esteem. No. It seems to me that the alleged complimenting is usually for the benefit of the companion Guys, a sort of group sport thing. Or perhaps it is a way for the lonesome Guy to win attention and approval from his fellows. Allow me to suggest that the next time you wish to bond with your friends, rather than disrupting the Groove, you turn your complimentary eye to your actual object. I can assure you that announcing "Hey, Bob, nice tits!" will garner you all the attention you desire.
Truly,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 11:59 PM
September 20, 2002
I'm Horrified.
Still with the manifesto, I am. I hope it turns out to be good, or won't we all feel silly? Here is something horrifying:
Those intolerant bastards! Why can't they see that we just want to live, dammit?
Posted by hilatron at 09:04 PM | Comments (2)
September 17, 2002
TV REVIEW: Push, Nevada
Hello, there. Since I'm currently tied up with writing The Sandwich Manifesto, to be published sometime in the future, I thought I'd provide you with this skit detailing my theory on how Ben Affleck and Sean Bailey pitched their new show, Push, Nevada, to executives at ABC.
-------------
Exec: So, Ben, let me just tell you that I love your work. Love it. Loved, loved, loved Pearl Harbor. Really touching. And that Project Greenlight thing? Groundbreaking.
Ben: Thanks. Let me introduce my partner, Sean -
Exec: Yeah, so let's cut to the chase. You've got something for us?
Ben: Well, you see, it's going to be a contained mystery arc that will be solved in 13 episodes.*
Exec: You...what's your name?
Sean: Sean.
Exec: Sean, I thought he was an actor, what's with this doctoral thesis I'm getting here? (Laughter.) Sean, baby, can you break it down for me?
Sean: Okay. You remember "Twin Peaks?"
Exec: Oy, don't remind me. "Who Killed Laura Palmer?" Who cared? Who understood what was going on? Who watched after season one? Not me, that's for damn sure. What kind of weirdos could put up with that "I'm Bob!" "No, I'm Bob!" crap? I mean, come on. Do we want to have mainstream, accessible programming? Absolutely. Do we want to have dark and inaccessible programming? That's a resounding no. We've had shows that were well received critically but were not accessible for our audiences. We want to get out of that business. But that doesn't mean you can't be innovative.**
Sean and Ben: Er...
Sean: Okay. So, what we're going to do is, we're going to make a show that superficially resembles "Twin Peaks," right? Like, a geeky-cool hero, a weird town, lots of corruption, a sexy siren, strange goings-on, quirky characters. But here's the good part: we're going to lay all that over the framework of an utterly conventional mystery show.
Exec: Oooh, I like it! What's your take on this, Ben?
Ben: Oh, yeah, the characters will be developed in a really innovative space, where there's dissonance between the impulse towards the norm and the fascination of the Other - ***
Exec: Um, yeah. So, is that what you've got laid out, Sean?
Sean: It'll be great! The people will get to feel like they're watching something groundbreaking, without being threatened by a show that is, in fact, breaking ground. Oh, and also, there's a game tied into the show where people compete for a million-dollar prize.
Exec: I like it! Condescending to people without letting on that we think they're drooling half-wits, while at the same time getting them hooked with the elusive promise of a quick buck! So innovative, yet it feels so safe! So, more importantly, who's the hot chick?
Sean: Here's a photo.
Exec: Hmmm, she looks kinda peaked. Can she act sexy?
Sean: Well...she's got this kind of...ethereal thing going.
Ben: Oh, yes, very ethereal.
Exec: What the hell does that mean, boys? You're losing me.
Sean: Well...
Ben: Erm...
Sean: Here's the thing. She can't act so much. And she's not so much sexy as sorta...half-asleep sounding. But here's the thing...(SEAN whips out a large folder) ...our casting director did an extensive search, and she got the best market rating of any of the young starlets whose physical characteristics played well with our leading man, so...
Exec: Say no more! Leave the acting to the movie people, that's what I always say! No offense, Ben! (Laughter) So, it sounds like we've got ourselves a deal here. How about we celebrate with a little visit to the topless steakhouse down the street, whaddaya say? The girls there aren't like these bony television chicks, believe me. Titties out to here, my boys, titties out to here...
(They EXIT, laughing.)
*Actual quote from Ben Affleck.
**Actual quote from ABC executive.
**I made this one up because I'm mean.
Posted by hilatron at 11:27 PM
September 15, 2002
MOVIE REVIEW: "Master of the Flying Guillotine"
MASTER OF THE FLYING GUILLOTINE directed by Jimmy Wang Yu (1975, 93 min.)
I love this movie. I want to inscribe its name in my Trapper Keeper. I want to write "Hilatron + Master of the Flying Guillotine 4EVA" on the bathroom walls, in electric blue eyeliner. I want it to ask me to Prom.
A little history: made in 1975, MotFG became legend despite the fact that it was almost immediately chopped up into about a million inferior, confusingly edited versions. Now, Pathfinder Pictures has gathered several prints and pieced together a definitive "original" version, with new never-before-seen footage to boot, and also subtitles replacing the typically awful dubbing that graced earlier versions. It's coming out on video soon. If you like kung-fu movies, save yourself some time and buy it. If you don't, rent it because it might change your mind.
MotFG begins with an explanation of the Flying Guillotine phenomenon: China's ruling dynasty has trained masters of Kung Fu in the deadly art of the titular weapon in order to drive out rebels. Many have been killed, and the rest of them are in hiding; the task of keeping them in order falls to one Fung Sheng Wu Chi, who is of course the Master of the Flying Guillotine. He's also blind, but that doesn't stop him from whupping some serious ass. Hell, his beard could kick most people's asses. Anyway, the Master learns that his two disciples have been killed by the One-Armed Boxer, a rebel leader who they've been after. This irks the Master. And when the Master is irked, he becomes super-extra-ass-whuppingly cool. My Lord. I can't quite describe the scene in which he gets all ready to go off and do battle; it involved some supercool sound effects, and some astounding displays of attitude. Suffice to say that when he declared, "I will avenge their deaths!" I was compelled to shout aloud, "I BEELIEEVE YOOOU!" like I was at a tent revival or something. He's that cool. Oh, and also we get to see the Flying Guillotine, which is a hat! ?No, it's a beekeeper's helmet! ?No, it's a real nasty head-cutting-off device, of course!
So the Master starts out on his quest to find the One-Armed Boxer. Meanwhile, we visit a Kung Fu school, headed by none other than the man himself. He's teaching his students "the technique of jumping," which consists of Levels One through Three. I believe I am at Level Negative Six or so, since Level One involves balancing on the rim of a straw basket, and I'm lucky if I don't trip and hurt myself getting into the shower. The One-Armed Boxer then demonstrates to his students that he is, himself, an ass-whuppingly cool kinda guy, though not in a showoffy way, of course, as we soon realize that he is the good guy. The good guy is never a showoff. Damn! And I was liking the Master o' the FG so much!
Moving right along, because there hasn't been much fighting yet and we can't have that, we learn that in addition to all this vengeance action there is to be a Kung Fu tournament sponsored by the Eagle Claws School. The One-Armed Boxer is reluctant to attend, but eventually his students talk him into it. Just to observe, you see. Uh-huh. This, of course, promises some excellent fighting to come, which we waste no time getting down to.
And, oh, the tournament. First of all let me just say that modern action directors are losers. Whenever there's a fight, they make with the fast cuts and the close-ups and the visual effects to disguise the fact that their actors can't really do all those superhuman things. Not so in MotFG, however. Here, the filmmakers knew how to keep still long enough for you to see what's going on. Since their participants knew some damn fine martial arts, they were content largely to pull back and let you enjoy them doing their stuff. The camera is by no means static: there's a lot of thought put into choosing shots and angles that parallel the fighting action, but there's no attempt to obscure what's going on, because there's no need. Although many of the movie's characters display supernatural fighting abilities, it's all backed by real-life skill, and it's beautiful to see. Accompanied by excellent bish-thwack-woosh-thump sound effects, this is some of the best fighting on film I've seen in a long while.
The tournament storyline also provides the filmmakers with a great excuse to bring out a host of great characters and their various physics-defying skills, such as the Yoga Master, who can extend his arms to a length of 8 feet or so; Iron Skin, who can take a punch or kick anywhere ? and I do mean anywhere, boys ? without the slightest pain; and Win-Without-A-Knife Yakuma, who practices "nice jumping" according to the One-Armed Boxer himself. The list goes on: Tornado Knives, the Thai Boxer, The Monkey Boxer, Miss Wu, Fists of Crane and Tiger?they're all great.
As if thirty minutes or so of excellent one-on-one weren't enough, the plot thickens when the Master of the Flying Guillotine shows up and makes some trouble, sending the One-Armed Boxer into hiding until he can think of a plan to stop the Master, because, as he tells his overeager students, "He who depends on Kung Fu alone is a fool." Let that be a lesson to you, the next time the Master of the Flying Guillotine is after you.
The rest of the film leads up to the final showdown between the One-Armed Boxer and the Master of the Flying Guillotine, of course, and what a fight it is. What I loved most about it is that someone clearly sat down and thought about what a blind person would fight like, and what a one-armed man would fight like. Granted, both characters exhibit supernatural powers that make them the equal of twenty mortal men, but still. The fighting was choreographed to reflect their alleged physical handicaps, and it makes the final battle that much more exciting. It's a knockdown drag-out of epic proportions, involving a coffin shop, an aviary, many nasty booby traps, and the requisite proving of toughness by surviving multiple fatal wounds.
All in all, this is one helluva good movie, which I can heartily recommend. Before I close, I must also mention the film's score, which is this great low-fi '70s synth-rock, and the costumes, which have inspired every martial arts video game, ever. I will now go practice my Robot Boxing. Ball Bearing Style! Whoosh! Clank! Whirr!
P.S. Dear friends: I wish to view more kung fu movies now. Perhaps you have some good suggestions for me, mmm?
Posted by hilatron at 02:27 PM | Comments (1)
September 14, 2002
I Hate You! (No, not you.)
Today I am grumpy. Things did not go as planned today. Thus, I will provide you with some whining. If you do not like my whining, neener neener!
1) I hate you, electric stove!
I hate you for not being clearly on or off, due to lack of the comforting hiss and flame of gas.
I hate you for not changing temperature instantly.
I hate you for heating up either way faster than expected or hardly at all.
2) I hate you, gravity!
I hate you for dropping things onto me off the top of the refrigerator.
I hate you for making walking so much less like flying than it ought to be.
3) I hate you, headache!
Where did you come from? Go back there!
4) I hate you, time!
I hate you for passing as I sit here and fail to do anything productive.
I hate you for making me get up early to go to work.
5) I hate you, biorhythms!
I hate you for making it possible for me to switch from a 7am-11:30pm waking schedule to a noon-4:00am waking schedule with one night's notice, yet making the transition back unbearably difficult.
6) I hate you, boxes that won't get unpacked!
I hate you for sitting under my desk, and for making the stairs to the patio unsightly.
I hate you for containing endless decorative obects that I don't know what to do with.
I hate you for making me feel like an evil over-consumer.
7) I hate you, carpentry!
I hate you for never coming out quite straight.
I hate you for always being harder than I think you will be.
I hate you for making me deal with things like studs in walls.
I hate you for not letting me put up my shelves in the bedroom due to some unexpected resistance, thus leaving me with the same number of boxes under my desk as I started the day with.
I hate you for how I put all these holes in the wall and have nothing to show for it.
8) I hate you, Walgreen's!
I hate you for not carrying my preferred brand of exfoliant.
I hate you for only having Palmer's Cocoa Butter Formula in the stupid pump bottle, which is a waste of money.
9) I hate you, Cat-Away!
I hate you because you are Murray's bitch, and he has not stopped scratching up the carpet one bit.
10) I hate you, TV news!
I hate you for all the people saying "War on Terror" in all seriousness, and how do they sleep at night? I would like to declare War on Owies, please! I will not rest until paper cuts have been utterly destroyed!
Thus endeth the whining (Ed. note: yeah, right). Sometime soon, when there is a better day, I will make a list of things that I like.
Posted by hilatron at 03:15 AM | Comments (10)
September 13, 2002
The Answer!
I've finally figured it out.
After years of wondering if I'm just lazy, of fearing that I may actually be a slacker, I had an epiphany. My problem was that I had not realized my true calling. It's not that I didn't apply myself in school; it's that school was not designed for the kind of person I am. It's not that I'm a sullen and ungrateful employee, oh no, but that the crass commercialism of these United States has no room for my unique and individual personality. I finally realized what I am, you see. I finally realized that I am not failing in the world; the world is failing me! It's such a relief to understand at last that I am...
A SERIAL OBSESSOR!!!!
You see, my friends, The Man, with his talk of "not following through" and "keep your eyes on the prize" and "go to work every day" and blah blah, has neglected my special needs.
I need to immerse myself in new disciplines with wholehearted abandon for just enough time to start a bunch of new projects. Then I need to move on to something else. It's simple really: let me start things, let me dabble, let me pop in for awhile, and then bid me a fond farewell. Don't think of what might have been, but enjoy the time we had, Unfinished Pants. I'll never forget you, Movie About The Aquarium. Bye, bye, Mein Lieber Decorating Idea.
I demand that new jobs be created for people like me, say every six weeks or so. It would also be nice to have a foundation or a council of some kind, and maybe some of those public service announcements. Oooh, and could scientists study me? Maybe that'd be good for a laugh for a couple of weeks.
The good news is that eventually I do cycle back to revisit old obsessions, so I really just have to live long enough and I'll be mighty accomplished, what with having memorized the Tarot, being a ballroom dancer, a Yogina, a gardner, a web designer, a filmmaker, a fashionista, an editor and making a kickass pastry. Never you fear, by the time I'm ninety or so I'll have all this down pat. I just need a little recognition, that's all, a little slack from my fellow men. You all just need to understand that I'm a multifaceted peg that won't fit into your pigeonhole, man, you dig?
Posted by hilatron at 12:35 AM | Comments (4)
September 12, 2002
What Hotbot Told Me.
Posted by hilatron at 09:57 PM
September 09, 2002
MOVIE REVIEW: "Ricky-Oh: The Story of Ricky"
RICKY-OH: THE STORY OF RICKY, directed by Ngai Kai Lam (1991, 88 min)
Welcome to another review from the Coolidge Corner Theater's fabulous midnight movie series!* Today we bring you an in-depth discussion of the merits of Ricky-Oh, a fabulous and truly heart-felt Hong Kong action flick which is only now making its theatrical debut in the US, thanks to the good folks at Media Blasters.**
Ricky-Oh begins by informing us that it's set in the dreary future of...2001. Hmmm. Maybe you wanted to think ahead a little more there, guys, what with the video market being what it is and all. Anyway. Let's just pretend we're doing the parallel universe thing instead of the future thing, shall we? It's really best to get your pesky expectations of realism out of the way right at the start, anyway. Otherwise your head might explode, which would actually be pretty appropriate...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
So. We're in a parallel universe, and it's 2001. The opening title informs us that the prison system has been privatized, resulting in prisons-for-profit that exist only to make money, with no regard for the incredibly brutal conditions in which prisoners must live so that the greedy corporate heads can make an extra buck. Oh! I see! Our parallel universe is set in a world where the population of Hong Kong has somehow adopted the political system of the United States! Gotcha!
Anyway. We begin our sojourn with the introduction of some tough characters being brought to their new home, prison. It's probably a bad sign that there's blood on the ground where the van pulls up, yes? Yes. It's these subtle touches that really make the movie. No, I'm serious. If you don't think that's artful, you'll never make it through the next eighty minutes.
Here's the plot lowdown, the outlines of which will be familiar to anyone who's seen a tough-guy prison movie, ever: Ricky goes to prison. Ricky immediately shows off how tough he is and all the guards hate him. Ricky witnesses an innocent prisoner (naturally one who's about to get paroled) getting roughed up by the Big Bad Prisoners Who Add to the Torments of Prison Instead of Helping Their Fellow Men. Ricky steps in and shows them what's what, thus getting on their shit list as well. Parole guy ends up dead, providing fuel for Ricky's huge furnace of angst. Ricky walks around all mad and tormented. Meanwhile, the Average Joe prisoners rally behind Ricky as he heroically tries to avoid combat, even with the Bad Guys, with very little success. No, Ricky just can't avoid a fight to (you'll pardon the phrase) save his life. Oh, does everyone want to fight him! He's the most popular kid on the cellblock! We then move at a smart pace through the following subplots: 1.) The discovery that that his particular Bad Guys are the Gang of Four, leaders hand-picked by the brass to keep each of the four wings of the prison in line; 1a.) The prison is corrupt right up to the warden, the most ultra-violent of them all, and is being used as a front for a poppy farm; 2.) The revelation of Ricky's history, including: 2a.) A romance gone horribly awry (prison movies love their dead girlfriends, they do. Nothing like some flashback scenes to get you some nubile young flesh for the trailer while avoiding actually writing a female character!); and 2b.) The back story to Ricky's amazing strength, reflexes, ability to tie his own tendons together to finish up a fight, which (duh) involves his wise, vaguely mystical uncle teaching a young and cocky Ricky what it's all about. I do hope you've watched enough movies to predict how this will end: Ricky must fight each of the G o' 4 to their brutal, bloody death, and then face off with the warden for the climactic fight followed by much freeing of the Average Joes and cheering and yelling and woohaw.
So, there's not much groundbreaking here in terms of plot. And the production values could have been higher. And the music fails to thrill the heart. And the actor playing Ricky was clearly chosen more for his plump, shiny pecs than for his charisma. And the acting...It's hard to judge the acting, because the seizure-inducing hilarity of the dubbing kinda gets in the way, but based on timing and facial expressions, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say it's...bad. But there is one important way in which this movie distinguishes itself from the latest Van Damme debacle, and that's the killing.
What we have right here are some filmmakers who love their killing. They might've skimped on the sets, the actors, the writer, the lighting, the director, the costumes...but damn, there's love in those models of flayed corpses. These people are so into head-crushing, they want to show you an x-ray of it. No, not an x-ray of someone whose head was crushed. An action x-ray of the head-crushing itself. It's hard not to respect that kind of dedication. Ricky's specialty is his super-strength, acquired from Uncle by means of some airborne tombstones (don't ask), and so when he punches people, he kinda...punches through them. Yep, there are people with holes through them all over the place. Now in a wussy-ass American movie, those people would just die. But this is a KUNG FU movie, and we'll have none of that namby-pamby "ooh, I'm missing 45% of my vital organs, I'd better lie down now!" 'round here. Hell, no. If people stopped moving around once they got holes in them, there wouldn't be so much bleeding, would there? And what fun is that? Nope, these guys keep going for a good four or five completely, ridiculously, instantly fatal wounds (and five gallons or so of the red) before they give it up. There's also some really inventive developments in sadism, involving razors and concrete and burial alive, oh my. There are also some classics, like The Room With The Descending Ceiling, because you just can't improve on some things. Unless you add electrocution to the mix, of course. Which, of course, they did. There's also very little respect for the human eyeball.
In addition to the death (as if we needed more to love!), I have to give a nod to the villains here: the Gang of Four, including The Guy With the Tattoo, who is tough enough to strangle people with his own entrails, The Goth Tarzan, who can still talk with a hole through his jaw, The Groomed Guy, who can administer the Touch of Death, and The Pouty Guy With Boy-Band Hair, who explodes in a dumbwaiter. They're all so great, it's hard to pick a favorite! Then there's the Assistant Warden, who's the petty dictator type and has a candy-dispensing glass eye (nope, not exaggerating), and the warden, who, though preferring to dress like a matador who got attacked by a sofa, is still the toughest of the bunch. His final fight with Ricky is the best (if by good you mean really, really gross and silly, which of course I do).
One final note: in case I have not made myself clear, DO NOT watch this movie if you have an aversion to gore and violence. I don't want anyone coming to me with reproachful puppydog eyes, talking about how horrible it was and how could I like it and blah blah. This is one gross, brutal, non-redeeming piece of cinema. However, there are some winsome scenes of slapstick comedy to lighten the mood, so you know, it's not ALL horrific soul-deadening brutality. I'm not sick. All is well. Really!
*Ed. note: Please be aware that Hilatron is not above accepting kickbacks, if anyone is interested. In fact, if anything, it's possible that kickbacks look down their noses at Hilatron. Crap - gotta go - we hear her coming and don't want to get anything else thrown at us! Back
**Ed. note: C'mon, guys, that must be worth a buck or two. Eh? Eh? Back
Posted by hilatron at 11:01 PM | Comments (5)
September 06, 2002
Games for Cats and People
Paranoid Dementia Races
Players: Two (2). One shall be the Cat and one shall be the Person.
Equipment: Six (6) legs total.
The Cat always begins play.
The Cat chooses a time when the Person is moving about the house, and begins play by crouching on the ground, laying his ears back, and following the Person's movements with deranged, lambent eyes. The Person should make no overt moves, but can add to the fun by pretending to be frightened and/or diabolically plotting the demise of the Cat.
After an appropriate interval, the Cat should charge directly at the Person as if to attack her/him, batting at the air near his/her legs, then veering to the side at the last possible second and retreating at a good clip to a safe haven. This location, however, should be accessible by the Person. Closets, atop refrigerators, and inside cupboards are considered out of bounds. It is desirable for the Cat to whack the Person with his tail on the way past, to signal full engagement. The Person shall then pivot and run towards the Cat, getting as close to him as possible without making contact. The Cat responds by galloping hell-bent to the other end of the house. Repeat as desired. Game play ends in one of three ways: 1.) When the Person stumbles over a box or piece of furniture and injures her/himself. 2.) When the Cat misjudges his distance and draws blood from the Person's lower extremities. 3.) When the Cat gets overinvolved in the Game and becomes alarmed, thus necessitating petting (please see "Love, Love, Hate" below for more on petting). In the first two cases, the Cat is the winner; the third scenario results in a draw.
Bug
Players: Two (2).
Equipment: 1 "bug" toy, a long piece of sturdy wire with cardboard bits attached to one end, which can be made to "fly" around the room.
The Cat or the Person can begin play. The Cat can claw at the carpet near the bug toy to signal his desire to play, or the Person can begin by batting the Cat about the head and belly with the toy. Play is of the standard chase-pounce-chew-escape-repeat variety. Some exciting variations are: Figure 8s, where the Cat is led in a series of dizzying patterns until he falls down; Kangaroo, where the Bug is dangled just out of reach of the Cat, tempting him to leap higher and higher, and the ever-popular Shit! Ow! Shit! where, during normal play, the bug is accidentally brought too close to the Person, resulting in collateral damage to her/his feet. Game play ends when the Person is distracted by e-mail, or when the Cat flops onto his side and adopts a "Surely you don't expect ME to have anything to do with THAT" expression. Whoever tires last is the winner.
Pushing the Envelope(aka: Goodbye, Security Deposit)
Players: Two-Three (2-3).
Equipment: Claws, carpeting, attitude.
The Cat always begins play.
The Cat chooses a spot within earshot of, but behind or around the corner from, the Person or Persons. The Cat then begins furiously scratching at the carpet. The Person(s) shout(s) "Murray! Stop that RIGHT NOW!" in threatening tones. The Cat should stop for an interval of 3-5 seconds, then scratch again. At this point, the Person(s) should yell again, this time rising from his/her/their seat(s) and making eye contact with the Cat. The Cat should adopt an air of injured innocence. The importance of successful playacting cannot be understated in this game; the goal is for all participants to truly believe that the Cat has no idea what all the fuss is about, but it can't possibly be about anything he might be doing, since he's just over here sniffing the door frame, thank you very much. This procedure can be repeated as many times as all parties wish. Play is normally ended, or at least postponed, by the sudden and forceful entry of one or more Person(s) into the Cat's personal space. Note that this is an excellent segue into Paranoid Dementia Races.
Love, Love, Hate
Players: Two.
Equipment: None needed.
Recommended supplies: Bandages, disinfectant.
The Cat normally begins play by flopping over onto the floor, rolling around in a ridiculously cute fashion, and looking adoringly at the Person. This will usually compel the Person to come over and pet the Cat. If not, the Cat can seal the deal by emitting plaintive and irresistible squeaks. After petting commences, the Cat should enjoy it for as long as he wishes. Variations on the standard head-to-tail back stroke include chin scratching, head rubbing, and belly petting. After some time has passed, the Cat should, suddenly and without warning, turn on the Person and claw at his/her defenseless hand. Recriminations then follow, during which the Cat should utilize the above-mentioned innocent air, perhaps followed by some washing. The Cat should note the importance of varying his reaction time from game to game, as unpredictability is key.
Screen Door? What Screen Door?
Players: One Cat and Spectators.
Equipment: One patio, one screen door.
Play is simple: the Cat can either be startled by something inside the house, like a vacuum cleaner or unsolicited petting, or intrigued by sounds from outside the house, like a train going by in a totally unique fashion unlike the other 119 trains that went by today. The Cat then bolts in the direction of the patio, forgetting that a mesh screen separates him from the outside world until his whiskers touch it, at which point the significant momentum generated by his run propels his lower half forward at the same time that his front half comes to a screeching halt, causing him to arch caterpillar-like and condense into a furry, confused and offended mass. Repeat endlessly.
Posted by hilatron at 06:47 PM | Comments (6)
September 02, 2002
Message from the Editors
Dear Readers,
Hilatron wishes for us to convey her apologies for her recent needy behavior. She is currently reclining Norma Desmond-like upon her bed, eating a box of chocolates and sighing dramatically, wrist to forehead, but took a moment to recognize her loyal friends and loved ones with the following statement:
"DARlings, I DO hope you'll forgive me for my little...episode yesterday. I was simply in the DUMPS, you see! I certainly don't mean to be a DRAG, you know that, dears...I just get a bit upSET sometimes. I just need a little reassurance that I'm still ON TOP, as it were. I just need to know that my PUBlic still NEEDS me. But I DO hope everything's peachy, sweeties. Kiss kiss?"
Um. As you can see, Hilatron is full of the sincerest apologies. However, when we gently suggested that she was, perhaps, overdoing the trashy novels a bit, she snarled and hurled a jar of cold cream at us. So we're just going to give the whole subject a rest. We'll keep an eye on Hilatron. Let us all hope for her return.
Yours,
The Editors
Posted by hilatron at 12:32 PM | Comments (4)
Doombotrant
Today I am honored to present a guest entry from Doombot. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did. Doombot, however, cares not for your feelings, mortals...
Doombot vs. Globalcorp
Has the American populace surrendered, en masse, to automatoninnity?
Don?t answer that.
Doombot concedes that a checkout line at Linens?n?Things is not the ideal venue for raising this question. Doombot also admits to having stood, of its own free will, in just such a line this very morning, and to having raised precisely this issue in said line. However.
Several mortals precede Doombot in said line. Each mortal is asked by the checkout clerk, upon submitting merchandise for her ministrations, for his or her phone number. Each mortal provides this information.
Doombot?s turn goes badly. First of all, Doombot is annoyed. There is one, yes one, checkout clerk for all the customers in the store; there is a long, long line; and this phone-number business is slowing things up. Doombot does not improve the situation.
"Phone number?" asks the clerk of Doombot.
Doombot replies, "Why do you want that information?"
"What information?" asks the clerk, who clearly does not listen when she speaks.
"You asked for my phone number," responds Doombot. "Why do you want it?"
"Oh, we?re just collecting it," replies the clerk.
Just collecting it? Doombot wonders. What, like old auto hubcaps?
"I don?t give out my phone number to strangers," says Doombot.
Clerk looks as though she is about to roll her eyes and tsk in the manner of a 13-year-old girl whose parent has just unreasonably forbidden her to go to Motorcycle Week with several new, 280-lb. male acquaintances wearing knife scars and leather vests. "We have to have that to ring you up," says the clerk.
Doombot refrains from pointing out that, as it is not itself on sale at Linens?n?Things, it will resist, with force if necessary, any and all efforts on the clerk?s part to ring Doombot up.
"I don?t think so," says Doombot. "All you have to do is ring the price of my floormat into the register, take my money, bag my floormat, and give me my change."
"We have to have your phone number," repeats the clerk, who is turning pink around the nose and mouth.
"Is that store policy? Are you telling me that, in addition to extracting the price listed on this merchandise, you now require that I surrender my privacy in order to buy things here?"
"I don?t know! I?m just taking phone numbers from everybody in line!" hisses the clerk.
A manager arrives. "Is there a problem here?"
"Yes," says Doombot. "This young lady claims I cannot buy this floormat unless I provide you with my phone number, and I don?t wish to give it."
"Oh, we?re just taking that from everyone," says the manager, as though she thinks I mistook the clerk?s request for a pickup line, and as though the fact that this outrage is being committed on all of the customers rather than one of them makes everything peachy.
"No; you are not taking it from me, because I am not giving it to you. May I or may I not purchase this two-dollar-and-fifty-cent floormat without turning over personal information in the process?"
Behind me, a lengthening line of natives grows restless.
"Ma?am, it?s just for marketing purposes," responds the manager, who has mistaken Doombot for a mortal woman.
Whenever Doombot patriotically attempts to participate in our market economy these days, it is quizzed for its zipcode, address, age, gender, marital status, phone number and on and on. Doombot resents this. Doombot calculates that, on average, the telephone number thingie takes about 7 seconds for each and every customer ? asking, answering and entering the responses of the vast majority of persons who surrender this data without a thought.
Now, Doombot freely confesses ignorance of the mechanics involved in manipulating this stored data by those who collect it. But Doombot is sure of one thing. That?s not only 7 seconds of Doombot time on its own transaction, it?s 7 seconds of Doombot time for every single person in front of it in line. If Doombot is 9th in line, more than a minute of Doombot?s time goes to assist some Globalcorp in its efforts to sell Doombot more stuff. To this must be added all the time of all the other people in said line. Twenty people in line = a total of 1470 seconds spent doing business for Globalcorp by the people in line, on their personal time, at no cost to Globalcorp, by the time the last customer?s through. That?s 24? minutes.
Globalcorp is saving gazillions in not having to hire minions to ferret out the phone numbers of its customers. Why should it pay someone wages and benefits when it can, while overcharging customers for shoddy goods assembled by miserably-paid third-world workers in sweatshop conditions, get those same customers not only to pay for the goods but also do part of Globalcorp?s marketing legwork for them? The 40-hour work week translates to 124,800 minutes per year. Doombot doesn?t know about you, but Doombot bets it wastes an hour a week in lines where customers meekly supply companies, free of charge, with information those companies a.) Have no right to; b.) Make money from by selling it to other Globalcorpses; and c.) Should be hiring and paying someone to collect. Multiply Doombot?s hour by, say, 200 million consumers 52 weeks a year, and that?s a chunk of change.
Doombot confesses to bewilderment as to how the buying public has been cowed into such abject oppression. (Don?t even get Doombot started on those who willingly pay companies for the privilege of having their bodies used as billboards by wearing logos.)
Doombot wishes to start a movement: do not give information to checkout clerks! Better still, give false information! Make Globalcorpses hire workers who get paid for these jobs! Don?t work for Globalcorp for free!
Doombot also notes with gloom, however, that having raised this fuss, the mortal immediately behind Doombot in line gave the clerk his telephone number.
We have nothing to fear from Saddam Hussein, Osama bin Laden, or even George Bush. The war is already over. We are a captive people..
Posted by hilatron at 12:30 AM
September 01, 2002
Statistics
Here are some numbers for you.
-Number of pairs of shoes under my desk: 3
-Number of times I have confused the word "shim" with the word "shiv:" 1
-Number of chocolate chip pancakes I consumed today: 4
-Length of resulting sugar coma: 2.5 hours
-Number of annoying dillholes sitting near me at brunch this morning: 6
-Number of times I listened to someone justify repeated infidelity with the fact that his girlfriend forgave him the first time he got caught: 1
-Number of times I heard a club described as fun because "lots of trashy Asian girls go there:" 1
-Number of times I resisted the urge to stab someone with a fork: 5
-Population increase in Brookline now that school is starting: 150%
-Percentage of population increase which wears white baseball hats: 75
-Number of baleful looks I have received from my cat today: 24
-Number of snarky comments I have made about my upstairs neighbors today: 7
-Average number of times I mutter "OR you could GET OUT of my WAY, dicksmack!!" under my breath in a given day: 4
-Percentage of e-mail I have received in the last two days which was actually for me personally: 5
-Number of people who have read this blog in the last week, based on available evidence: 3
-Extent to which I base my self-worth on whether anyone visits my blog or e-mails me: 50-75%
-Number of times I have criticized others for trying to instill guilt in their loved ones: 400 or so.
Yours,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 04:33 PM | Comments (4)