My third week at my new job started today, and my first on my own with no supervision. I'm confused and bewildered, with an almost permanent thousand-yard stare. I am doing work though, and probably more in the first three hours than a whole week at Grant Mac this summer. Productivity is on the up! Of course, you're probably asking why I'm posting if I'm so busy. A good-looking question, and I have no answer for you that might take off that stupid smirk on your face. So let's just say that I'm trying to get my mind into a creative mode while typing.
Today has been my last day of work. In a couple hours, I will no longer be an employee of the Students' Association of Grant MacEwan College. It has been an incredibly entertaining 27 months, and I wouldn't trade the experience for anything - I'm just trading up. As of Monday, I begin a new position with the Edmonton Sun, one to which I am very excited, mostly because I grew weary of my SA position. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't the organization, or the people or the 70% female campus (no straight male ever gets tired of that), it was just my job lacked passion. And interest. And excitement. I just wasn't suited for advertising sales, and classy begging, aka student organization sponsorship.
So I'm out. And I've been having a very relaxed last day. A late morning, a great lunch, and a slow afternoon. Since this blog isn't a journal blog, I should probably throw in some relevant pop-culture references, so let's take a look at some last days of work in film. Are they great last days? Perhaps. Are they at least filled with an overly dramatic high-pitched musical score? You bet.
The Pledge (2001)
A girl's body is found during homicide detective Jerry Black's (Jack Nicholson) surprise retirement party. He pledges to find the killer for the family, because that's what good cops do - they swear to solve crimes after they've retired, because what else are they going to do? Sean Penn directs, and does a pretty good job of making Nicholson limit his sunglasses-wearing and cease making those scary, smiling clown faces he always seems to have ready for court-side Laker game appearances. If I were Jack Nicholson, I would pledge to forget that I ever saw Diane Keaton naked.
Falling Down (1993)
Another retiring cop on his last day, Martin Prendergast (Robert Duvall) rushes to track down an unemployed, divorced engineer (Michael Douglas), who violently snaps during a day where nothing seems to be going right. I think we've all been in similar situation: bad day at work, morons driving on the road, gas prices too high, no good popsicles to buy at the grocery store, etc. But we don't get guns and shoot up shit. This is Canada. We just talk down to every one we see in a very patronizing passive-aggressive tone. We don't get violent, we just become assholes.
Snakes On A Plane (2006)
Julianna Marguiles is a flight attendant on her last day of work, when all hell breaks loose. An assassin attempts to kill a murder witness by releasing a crate-full of deadly snakes when the plane is airborne. Only Samuel L. Jackson can save the day. Enough ridicule has been thrown at this movie already, so I'll spare you that tripe. Some thoughts, though: I believe that Julianna Marguiles has the record for most acting projects in which the title pretty much sums it up. Along with Snakes on Plane, she's been in Traveller, Dinosaur, The Big Day and Ghost Ship. What could these be about? It's a puzzler.
Clerks II (2006)
Ten years after Clerks, Dante and Randall are still mired in dead-end jobs, this time at a fast-food restaurant. To get out of his rut, Dante wants to move away with his girlfriend, and just has one last day at work beforehand. Naturally, in order to have a movie at all, things must happen, which writers call a "plot", with side orders of "rising action", squirts of "conflict" and a juicy "climax" which isn't as sexy as it sounds. The plot for me today involved the dangerous turning on of my computer, the tense struggle to pack up my personal belongings, and the heart-warming denouement, which involves me looking back at my office with a look of soft, self-satisfaction, mouthing some cliched departing sentiment, and turning out the lights.
Strolling around the internets today yielded a few videos of great interest. That interest turned into squeals of glee and unbridled giddyness. And I'm at my office. Kind of embarrassing, I have to say.
The first video is the trailer for what should definitely be next year's geek wank-fest, Watchmen. Arguably the greatest graphic novel of all time (although one can make a case for Berenstain Bears and the Messy Room), this film adaptation is being helmed by Zack Snyder, the man who brought us the ass-kicking, dialogue-screaming, almost permanent slow motion 300. Will Watchmen have the same level of "oh SHIT!" scenes that 300 had? Will it also almost be filmed entirely in slow-mo? Will I be able to repeat killer lines of dialogue ad naseum after the film has ended, much to the annoyance of my friends and co-workers? I hope so. For the HD version, check it out here. High-definition equals ten times as mind-melting.
Next, I have the first teaser trailer for Terminator Salvation. If you recall, I posted about Christian Bale's involvment, and how fucking incredible it is for him to be on board. And for the next few films in the franchise, no less. This trailer just gets the fanboy in me frantically jittery, like the ADHD kid who's gorged on the bulk candy at Safeway while weekend mom is busy reading self-help magazines. I'm all a-tingle. Have a look!
Finally, I have the trailer for American Ninja. Why? Because they don't make movies like this anymore, and this is fucking awesome. Michael Dudikoff for the win, people. If anyone can defeat "the secret Black Star Army", it's him. He was in TRON.
Do you ever watch a TV program, or see a commercial, and instantly feel immense hatred, unyielding disgust, and an almost uncharacteristic urge to put your fist or inanimate object through the screen? I do, every time I see a commercial for children's music, or rather, music sung by children. And to thank for this unbridled rage? K-Tel.
K-Tel is a Canadian-based company that was started by Philip Kives, a Saskatchewan-born entrepreneur who originally sold items like cookware, sewing machines and vacuum cleaners door-to-door and in department stores in Canada and in the US. Kives made a decent living, due to his fast-talking style which won over consumers who didn't have a moment to think about whether they wanted the product or not. Everything changed in 1962, however, when while in Winnipeg, Kives demonstrated a non-stick Teflon pan in a 5-minute program on television. With what could be the world's very first informercial, Kives was able to sell anything to a vast audience of people, and give unemployed loners something to watch at 3am. In early 1966, K-Tel began selling compilation TV records, starting with 'Twenty-Five Country Hits'. After that, K-Tel started releasing compilation albums featuring contemporary hits at an alarming rate throughout the '70's, and much of what was found in record stores were "as seen on TV!".
In 1983, Channel 4 in the UK began a series entitled, "Minipops", which consisted of cherubic pre-teens dancing and singing to pop hits of the era, and some classics. The kids were revealingly-clothed and makeup-splattered like the artists of the songs, which some viewers either found cute and innocent, or degrading, immoral and pedophile-enticing. The show was popular with kids initially, but adults found that children singing lyrics of a sexual nature to be a tad unsettling, like when five year-old Joanna Fisher covered the Sheena Easton song "9 to 5" in nightclothes and included the lyrics "we make love". That's fucking creepy. Despite ratings success, the show was cancelled quickly, and albums were soon released, with much success in Canada, where the albums were picked up and distributed by K-Tel.
Yes, my family had the first album, and yes, I listened to it. But even as a young boy, I could tell that there was something wrong with the concept. I understood at an early age that songs are sung by the original artists, because for the most part, they actually sound good. Pardon my generalization, but kids don't do anything really well. They can't really sing, they can't dance (jumping around is not dancing), and they're not funny (unless they're hurting themselves in a non-permanent way, like after jumping into something). I believe that the album's popularity stemmed from many children seeing the kids dressed up as music stars, hearing them sing, and thought that one day, that could be them. What kid doesn't like dressing up and bouncing around to music, whatever the style? Mini-Pops was a dream for some kids.
Fast-forward to present day. K-Tel has recently released the fourth album in the new incarnation of Mini Pops, Mini Pops Kids, and Kidz Bop in the States, has released 13(!) compilation albums, all featuring "today's top hits!" and "all your favourite songs!". Well, not my favourites, but probably some 13 year-old's favourites. Whereas I can accept the proliferation of albums in the US (because they love the sexualization of children, and generally everything stupid), I can't see why we accept it in Canada. But thanks to K-Tel, we are going to have album after album featuring phony-acting children butchering modern and classic pop songs. And for whose benefit? Children who are musically entering a post-Doodlebops world should be listening to the actual artists, not some pre-pubescent wannabes. Any parents who think that buying this for their kids will save them from lyrics or images that they find distasteful or inappropriate, try actually fucking parenting, instead of accepting a watered-down facsimile, because your kid is going to hear and see the original somewhere else. Kids are quite adept at downloading, so they don't need a shitty compilation CD to get the songs.
What K-Tel is doing, is telling a bunch of child actor rejects that they could be the next big thing, but in actuality, they're just getting an early start at really bad karaoke. They're going to be the ones that you see in the corner of the bar on karaoke night, singing every second song. But you're drunk, and they're serious.
K-Tel, just give it up already, and stop making me hate every kid in those commercials I see, and every song I hear them sing. I mean, I already hate all those songs, but those kids don't deserve it. Okay, that kid with the hat does. I hate that bastard.
A week ago, I returned once again from the greatest conference known only to college event planners, student life proponents and all-around permanent students who only know how to drink and sway listlessly to music. A conference that creates wondrous memories and also deletes potential wondrous memories, depending on the amount of free alcohol consumed. A conference so great in scale and entertainment, that it's at least one hundred times better than this one.
Yes, last week was another edition of COCA (Canadian Organization of Council Activities), this time in Ottawa, the capital and home to an NHL team that can't even get to game 7 before they lose in the Stanley Cup finals (losers). This was the third conference that I managed to sneak past security for, and I couldn't have been happier with the results of the six days there. This COCA may well be my most favourite yet, due to musical showcase quality, good people and the amount of sweat produced when no sweat should be produced (like when standing still). The whole point to the conference is to bring together individuals, schools and companies that are related to the campus entertainment and programming industry and get them networking, friend-raising, and generally truth-spewing drunk. Therein lies the fun. It's truly great to be with many like-minded individuals, regaling tales of wonderful campus events, sharing innovative ideas and concocting wild, insane beliefs that this is the year their school will be immortalized for bringing U2 to play.
I was lucky this year. Again. It seems that I've been in the right place at the right time for the last two years in order to attend this conference. And I couldn't be happier, and to my place of employment, SA MacEwan, I give a hearty salute. To them, I lift my free rum and cranberry juice-filled Festival Promotions water bottle to them, and say "Thanks for settling with me as your representative! I promise that I'll now come in before 10am to keep your trust."
Here's some memories:
- The98% humidity. The 30+ degree temperatures. No A/C in the hotel. Yeah, this wasn't cool at all (no terrible pun intended), and it made for a most uncomfortable stay, especially since I thrive in colder climates (I live in Edmonton by choice, kids). However, the topper is the hotel staff telling us to "turn your thermostat all the way to HOT to get colder air out of the vents". If that isn't the most unintentionally hilarious piece of hotel damage-control B.S., I don't know what is. After complying with their "advice", I managed to flood half my room. Thanks, dorks.
- The Random Word Game. Pretty much self-explanatory. People do weird things while drinking, and if you're trying to come up with clever dialogue with which to contribute to a discussion, sometimes you just get one random word out. If random enough, you might drag some others along for the ride (thanks Courtney, Jenna and Sameena!). Example: You say "clouds". Someone else says "credenza". Another person says "muskrats". You say "earlobe". Someone says "this is retarded".
- The Canadian Heritage Commercial Recollection. Similar to the Random Word Game, on many a night, I found myself drinking and probing people's minds for crazy things. One thing I couldn't get enough of, was asking people what was their favourite Canadian Heritage commercial moment. The answers were excellent, but even more so, was the startling realization that I can pretty much recite the ones I know by heart. I watch too much TV. But you know what? I'm fucking learning. So there. My favourite moment? "But I need these baskets back!"
- Shelly Climbing A Tree Outside Algonquin College. Man, she fucking got up there quick. And high!
- Post-Hospitality Room Parties In The Breakaway Tours Hotel Room. This is where much free booze was consumed, and many inane, yet hilarious conversations about nothing were conducted. This room introduced many of the revelers to the "quiet coyote", which was dedicatedly used to quiet the masses after numerous hotel security visits. I can only hope that Lora has managed to regain her sanity after the coyote was less than successful. I was quiet, Lora, but mainly because my voice is so low that it appears to most people as if I'm just mouthing words.
- The Worst Named Candy Ever. Honestly, whoever in Cadbury'sMaynards marketing department thought of this is probably a pervert. Or a satirical genius. I'm guessing a pervert.
- Being Called "The Biggest Disappointment Of COCA 2008". Fine, so I didn't go "pool-hopping". So fucking what? This is what I get labeled as for not wanting to put my clothes on while soaking wet? Thanks for the confidence boost, Guillaume. I'm a bigger downer than no hotel air-conditioning. Yay.
Have another memory, my dear fellow COCA-goers? Let me know!
This weekend involves easing up the pressure on the fun pedal a bit, as I'm moving out of my apartment, and into a house.
There's a significant portion of my feelings that are slightly hurt due to this decision, but most of my feelings are on board, saying things like, "Yes! Good show!", "I heard there will be two fridges! Excellent!", and "What's this phenomena known as 'air conditioning', and what does it do? Does it make the air more awesome?" This was a decision that wasn't made lightly, but then, I hardly make any decisions heavily. There are a number of reasons for the move, some of which I don't need to go into here. Alright, the rent is lower. Satisfied? I work for a non-profit organization that isn't crooked. I'm not exactly buying any rocket cars or solid gold shoes any time soon.
I've been reflecting quite a bit on the past year, and what living alone in my own apartment meant to me (the ability to walk around in minimal clothing, basically). Last year, I wrote a post on how incredibly super great it was to live on my own, and now, I have a few things to look forward to while living in the new house. In no particular order, here they are:
- Roommates. Yes, I remarked last year that I liked not having roommates, because I didn't want to be subjected to inane conversations about things nobody cares about. However, after a year on my own, I've had inane conversations about things nobody cares about with myself. Recently, I talked to myself about why I hate it when little bits of lint get caught in the toe-end of my socks. Roommates will save me from kicking my own ass.
- Air-conditioning. Last summer, I almost died from heat exhaustion in my own home, and stripping down to nothing almost every day helped very little. I can't wait to avoid the "window-temperature conundrum", wherein you can have the windows open, and let the heat in, or close the windows and let the heat dwell. Even with an almost never-ending supply of popsicles, I pretty much lived in Sweat City for months. And adding a ceiling fan in late September? Great timing, genius.
- Community beer, backyard deck and fire pit. This summer is going to be just like a beer commercial, with plenty of beer on ice, scantily-clad hotties engaging in summer activities (like hottie frisbee, hottie picnic table dancing, and hottie walking around), and everyone having the best day of their lives. Seriously, it's going to be killer, and we're having open auditions for the hotties starting on Monday. Don't be afraid girls, I have a free "Snow Jam" visor for all that attend.
- Living a block away from Kevin Lowe. If any readers hear about Kevin getting daily trade requests and operational tips in his mail, that might be me. And the ones signed in blood, with temporary Oilers tattoos on the envelopes? Yeah, that was definitely me.
Last week, I was in Jasper for a staff retreat, which was only memorable for the sheer number of animal statues that were ridden, and then I was in Las Vegas for a wedding, the ceremony of which I actually missed. Were good times had? You betcha. Quite frankly, I'm a little depressed to be back in town, although this rain is a bit beautiful, considering the 40+ degrees I experience in Sin City. However, my depression will not quell the onset of my usual metaphorical "brain aneurysms" that I have when I read certain articles of incredible wonder.
I've just read a news article that put my pop-culture, film nerd mind beyond the stratosphere, into the damn mesosphere. Included in the article are things that I thoroughly enjoy: an actor, a film series and a certain time period.
Christian Bale. Signed on for the next THREE Terminator films? I've had fanboymindgasms before, but this one is unconscionable. And to think that I've just come down from my excitement cloud having known that Bale is in Terminator 4. After reading the headline, I pretty much started having renewed crazy hallucinations and visions, not unlike William Hurt's character in Altered States. But I had good ones - we're talking evolutionary progression, here. Not only does one of my favourite actors (and let's be honest, one of the best actors working today) have a starring role in the next film of one of my favourite sci-fi franchises, but he signed on for THREE films? I can't believe that this is happening.
Granted, I have my reservations regarding the direction of the fourth film, due to McG's involvement. This guy directed Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. Fuck. However, with Mr. Bale taking the lead, and the future time period being the battlezone, I can only have good thoughts regarding the quality of the final product. And for the films to follow, as well. Many, many kudos to The Halcyon Company for their prowess on the negotiating table (and securing the rights to Philip K. Dick's works as well - great work!).
Christian Bale. Three Terminator films. My birthday and Christmas have just merged into one gigantic orgiastic present getting-fest.
Hey Mom, I hope you're having a great day today, and I'm sorry for once again showing up hungover. That's eight years in a row, I know. I can't help it, though. It just that the day before your special day is always nice out, and there's always something going on. I know you didn't pick your day to be a Sunday, but that's not my fault either. I got you some flowers! I hope that you like them. I had to ask this really cute girl at the greenhouse "what kinds of flowers do moms like?", and she probably thought I was retarded. No matter, she's probably a psycho anyways.
I love you Mom, and even though I reek of beer, I'm sure you can smell the love emanating from my pores.
Sadly, no, I didn't write it. I had a rant all revved up and ready to go on the subject, but alas, I'm not one to put down mediocre stakes on land someone's already put down much better stakes. Random metaphors aside, I was going to weigh in on the current Miley Cyrus witch trial, because a) I watch too much TV, and b) because I had nothing better to write about other than a salacious picture of a 15 year-old. I can't tell which is more pathetic. No wait, I can.
It sums up exactly what I've been thinking and getting sick and tired of, which is the hypocrisy of the apparent "general public consensus" and all the constant "outrage du jour" that infests some media outlets (Nancy Grace - just calm the fuck down!).
Highlights:
"This isn't about Miley Cyrus without a shirt on or if she's been seen somewhere in her lingerie, or if her father dropped the ball. It's simpler than any of that; this whole thing comes down to picture of a 15-year-old looking like she just got the shit fucked out of her. And if there's anything America loves more than a war, it's teenagers fucking." "Also, teenagers fucking is a billion-dollar industry. Juno, for example, would not have been a lucrative, laureled darling of both the Christian right and the hipster left had she and Paulie Bleeker not A) fucked and B) kept the baby they conceived. Superbad was a more pointed argument for the appeal of teenagers not only fucking, but fucking well." Well put.
Yeah, just so you know, you've got it. You've got the touch. Also, you also have the power. To really make you believe that you're a winner, I've asked Stan Bush here to really drive this home. Happy? You should be.
Also, that kid needs to shut the fuck up. Optimus doesn't have to answer your questions. He transforms days into adventures. Fucking adventures, man.
Whilst trolling the internet today, I came across my favourite of favourite Kids In The Hall sketches, which pretty much sums up my life at times. Pure comedy mastery. Videos!
It's been a crazy couple of weeks, as work has been incredibly busy. Which is a good thing for making time go by faster, but it cut deeply into my internet surfing. And I needs my internet surfing.
So here's a compilation clip showing some of the dangers of being a news reporter. Of course, many of these reporters put themselves into danger willingly, so the fact that some may have been hurt makes it all the more humourous.
If you live in the capital city of Alberta as I do, you may know about the awesome little intersection I like to call the "Colon" of Edmonton, that is, Calgary Trail/Gateway Boulevard and 23 Avenue. For several years now, since the development of the South Edmonton Common business/commercial district, this intersection has become one of the worst sites for accidents, rush-hour/any-hour traffic jams, and general douchebaggery with respect to driving skills. The once simple southern T-intersection that was once a oft-ignored landmark on the way out of town, has become a significant infrastructural blight on the face of this fair city.
Could this nightmarish roadway crossing have been averted? Of course. Are the solutions only being acted upon now? Of course. Construction on an interchange that will service Calgary Trail south, Gateway Boulevard north, 23rd Avenue and 19th Avenue will begin the day after April Fool's Day this year, and will continue for 3 years until it is operational. 3 years! Not only is traffic and general "getting around" terrible now, but it's going to become even worse, and for 3 years. This project is so intense and utterly awesome in scale, it has its own website, 23avenue.com. What I want to know is this: I assume that city planners weren't broad-sided by an overnight pop-up of commercial development that spans 320 acres, and has 2.3 million square miles of retail space. I assume that this area was in the works for some time before it was actually built. Therefore, WHY THE FUCK WASN'T THIS INTERCHANGE BUILT THEN? Why is it always a knee-jerk reaction when it comes to projects like this? Because the City of Edmonton has done it before.
You may know of a fairly significant landmark between 170th and 178th Street, and between 90th and 87th Avenue, for an area coverage of over 570,000 square metres. Yeah, it's West Edmonton Mall. Recently, the City is trying to figure a way to extend the Light-Rail Transit (LRT) system to the mall to alleviate traffic along 170th street. The cost will probably be in the hundreds of billions, and probably won't be done until 2050, but it's worth a shot, right? I mean, who'd have thought that there would be traffic to THE WORLD'S LARGEST SHOPPING AND ENTERTAINMENT COMPLEX. I sure didn't. Naturally, the city would have probably known that this sort of development was happening in advance. I can imagine, though, the following conversation taking place when the mall was being built:
City of Edmonton Employee #1: "Wow! We're going to have the largest mall in the world, right in our city. Edmonton will be world-class! Perhaps we should consider extending the LRT in that direction, as we discussed as far back as 1962? I mean, it's bound to have a huge draw, and it sure would make it easy to get there and back from central locations along our existing LRT line."
City of Edmonton Employee #2: "Nah".
Simplistic, but probably not far off. Just crazy. This town has a serious hard-on for "better late than never" construction projects. From the interchange to the LRT, nobody will do it better, or later, than the City of Edmonton. And if you think I'm exaggerating the possible completion date of 2050 for a westbound LRT, look at the stats for the extension from the University station to the Health Sciences station:
Distance: 800m
Time from initial planning/construction to completion: 6 years.
By comparison, let's look at the development of the Chunnel, the fixed-link crossing between Folkstone, Kent, England and Coquelles, France.
Distance: 50.5 kilometres. UNDER WATER.
Time from initial construction to completion: 6 years.
What started out as a simple rant by a bitter, yet sometimes salty young man, has grown to become the bitter, salty rant you know today!
I've reached to 100 posts, and I'm quite proud of this achievement. I've been writing since July 11, 2006, which would make that 602 days. That puts my committment to this blog way past my longest relationship (135 days), well short of my longest job tenure (1488 days), and much, much shorter than my time in university (2427 days). However, I'm still going to write, so the latter milestone may fall if I can keep finding neat things to write about and stupid things to make fun of.
So here's a toast to me. Cheers.
Speaking of neat things, please check out this site, Garfield Minus Garfield. Here's its blurb:
Who would have guessed that when you remove Garfield from the Garfield comic strips, the result is an even better comic about schizophrenia, bipolor disorder, and the empty desperation of modern life? Friends, meet Jon Arbuckle. Let’s laugh and learn with him on a journey deep into the tortured mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against lonliness in a quiet American suburb.
The resulting cartoons are unbelievably funny and quite revealing. I heartily encourage you to jaunt on down to the site and spend some quality time with Jon Arbuckle. Quite frankly, he needs some support.
Perhaps I'm a little guilty of schadenfreude, but who the hell wouldn't get a kick out of this latest box office disaster:
'Hottie' a nottie at the box office You can lead a gossip-loving fan to water, you can even dip their heads in the water, but you can't make them drink. Or even take a sip. A thousand people may line up at the Franklin Mills Mall and wait for hours to catch a glimpse of Paris Hilton but they won't pay money to see her in a movie. Playing in 111 theaters, the weekend estimate for "The Hottie" was a "Nottie" - $25,000. Total. An average of $225 per theater or, two, maybe three people per showing.
Daily News wire services contributed to this report.
Pardon me for a second. BWAHAHAHAHA! What a stinging rebuke for a no-talent nothing. Of course, we all saw this coming. I mean, what moron would actually believe that a Paris Hilton movie would actually make money in the theatres? I just feel bad for the people that have seen this piece of shit. To date, 'Hottie and The Nottie' has earned $27,696, which would be about 2500 people. THAT'S the most disturbing fact in all of this, that people outside of Paris' own family and her babbling sycophants have actually seen the film, and paid for it.
You'd think that Paris would have seen this coming, especially with the recent box-office turds that Lindsay Lohan (I Know Who Killed Me) and Jessica Simpson have crapped out. Thankfully, Jessica's camp realized her inability to do absolutely anything worthwhile and pulled Blond Ambitionafter screening it in only 8 theatres. It, and probably Major Movie Star, have and will be, straight to DVD, which will probably be found in the 99-cent bargain bin at Wal-Mart.
However, Jessica, Paris and even Lindsay cannot boast the lowest box office total. That honour actually gets bestowed upon Katherine Heigl, for her wonderful turn as a seductress in Zyzzyx Road. Also starring Leo Grillo (some guy) and Tom Sizemore, it's the story of love, murder and a horribly spelled road.
Zyzzyx Road release only lasted six days, from February 25, 2006 to March 2, 2006. It was release in only ONE theatre in Dallas, Texas, to six patrons. Unofficially, its opening weekend netted $20, but its actual box office total is proclaimed to be a whopping $30, the difference being a personal refund by Grillo to one of the makeup artists.
Zyzzyx Road, I salute you. You may have only made enough money to fill half a gas tank, but you're still infinitely better than any baby-puke film that Paris Hilton will put out.
Generally, older folks are kind, gentle people who just want you to get off their lawn. They love "the way things used to be", voting and Werther's Original candy. Most are quite harmless, especially the unarmed ones. However, there's one geriatric that you need to avoid at all costs. If you even hear her name uttered, your very life is at risk. Avoid the east coast, and for the love of all that's holy, never, EVER go near Cabot Cove, Maine.
Why the alarm? Why the grim message of potential doom? Because the woman in the picture to the left wants to kill you.
Jessica Fletcher was her name, and she was the main character of the show, Murder, She Wrote, which ran from 1984 to 1996, consisting of 264 episodes, and a few TV specials. Its popularity was palpable; the show was consistently a must-see for many people languishing for some sort of Sunday night escape in anticipation of the misery the week ahead would yield. The show was Matlock-esque in its vice-like hold on numerous genarians, from sexa to octo, and even middle-aged individuals found it to be somewhat whimsical in its approach to the most horrid of living ends. Children were taught that old people did have a use that went beyond sweater making and the holiday kiss on the cheek. Older people could actually perform civic duties, like solve murder mysteries. Apparently, the only pre-existing experience an old person needed was a publishing deal and a flippant wit. Murder, She Wrote was a delightful tale of one individual's crusade against the rampant ageism found in today's (or at least the '80s) society.
Or was it?
Jessica Fletcher, one could argue, was indirectly the worst serial killer in United States history. And the public adored her.
Each episode involved a murder, and subsequently, Jessica's insatiable curiousity always got the better of her, causing her to meddle in every police investigation. The cops always arrested the most obvious suspect, but Jessica always revealed the authorities' stupidity, and solved the mystery by revealing the real guilty party, thankfully within the hour (or sometimes in two parts). But hold on a second. 264 episodes, 264 murders. Jessica Fletcher always involved. Does anyone else see the path of gluttonous bloodlust? A ravenous desire to punish the living? Jessica Fletcher, I have figured you out.
Some might find it humourous that Ms. Fletcher coincidentally happened to always be around when a murder happens, but let's face it: even after 5 deaths, the cops should be questioning her a bit more. Does death follow her like rats to the malicious tune she plays with her necrotic hands? Is this woman Death itself? I believe she is. I believe she is indeed the Reaper, and her transportation, her bike, is her pale horse (the bike might have been red, but whatever. It's evil). All the clues are there. Simply watch the opening title sequence, and you will see.
In the opening scene, she begins to type her latest list of those who will meet their ultimate demise. The title is a dead giveaway (no pun intended), as "Murder, She Wrote" has 4 syllables. In China, Korea and Japan, 4 is the number most associated with death. Next, you can see her stalking out her next victims, by climbing to them, running to them, even making contact with them through a seemingly harmless wave. Her face reacts to the site of her next quarry; it's a look of pure malevolence carefully disguised by a surprised veneer. She even acts out how she's going to dispose of them. In the end, she's seen satisfied, quite pleased with the list of who's to shake off their mortal coil next.
Know this, faithful reader: simply because she's off the air, do not for a second believe that her lust, her desire to kill has been satiated. Quite the contrary. She will continue to kill, continue to frame the innocent, and continue to make stupid fucking jokes at the end of each episode.
mon·ster -noun 1. a legendary animal combining features of animal and human form or having the forms of various animals in combination, as a centaur, griffin, or sphinx. 2. any creature so ugly or monstrous as to frighten people. 3. any animal or human grotesquely deviating from the normal shape, behavior, or character. -adjective 4. huge; enormous; monstrous: a monster truck.
The picture above is that of the monster variety. You'll notice that it's dimensions are enlarged greatly, almost comically, as to enhance its status as a monster. Many humans, much like those described as number three in the definition above, display a fond affliction to these vehicles, so much so that it's seems juvenile or retarded to those observing from a distance.
And there I was, observing from a distance at Rexall Place on Saturday night. Although, not quite from a distance, but rather right front and fucking centre. For I, Tyler Daignault, for one night, became the stuff of legends...or something like that.
It all started when my friend and colleague Christina sent me an urgent text message telling me that I should "omg Tyler, you have to enter Sonic's Monster Jam Announcer contest!". Never one to ignore a message that brings our Lord into reference, I scrambled to nearest internet computing machine to see what had caused such a furious and urgent cry for my entry in competition. Sonic's webpage did not prove Christina to be a histrionic liar, but rather a wise sage. For what I saw ignited a spark within and a special feeling welled up inside me. It's that tingling feeling you get when you think to yourself, "Oh man! I would just kill at this!" For many years, friends, relatives, acquaintences and complete strangers have said to me that I should "be on the radio, or something". I've most assuredly taken this observation to heart, but regrettably, never to task. However, I've always looked out for special opportunities that allow me to showcase my unique oratory skills. Through the years, I've annoyed many with my "movie trailer-guy voice" and promoted many events by way of my microphone hogging. This "Monster Jam Announcer" contest would be just another way for me to perhaps gain some new admirers of my voice, or perhaps catch the ear of someone significant - a station manager, perhaps.
Don't get me wrong, though. I think monster trucks, and all motorsports in general are pretty much the dumbest "sporting events" out there. You want to watch cars zoom by you? Sit by the Whitemud or Henday for a while. However, I will always put my own opinions aside if it means I can win something. After auditioning at Sonic the following Friday morning, I found myself in the top 5, enabling my commercial for voting by the general public of Edmonton. Hear the commercial that put me into the top five! After an intense weekend of voting, and thanks to my efforts on Facebook, I won with 46% of the vote! I was going to Monster Jam and get to announce during the performance! I also received four Gold-Club seats, but who cares about those? I couldn't believe it; I was going to put my vocal talents to use in front of thousands of people. I was busting, and I had to get prepared. Hear how I prepped myself for my big night. The week proceeded to fly by with supersonic speed, and before I knew it, it was Saturday.
I made a decision that if I were to win this contest, then I would have to make the most of it, i.e., dress up. For numerous parties, Halloween or the like, I've dressed up as an "80's rocker" or "some white trash guy with a mullet", so I had a costume in mind. Not to say that all monster truck fans are white trash, or sport mullets, but there's a reason that stereotype exists. From what I have seen traipse through Rexall for events like these (the last "Larry the Cable Guy show", for example), the people attending aren't exactly dressed to see the damn symphony orchestra. They're hicks, and they like it. I can't tell you how many "Motorists" (remember, from "Who's Who In The Mall"?) I saw there, but I'm sure you wouldn't be surprised. In fact, you'd expect it. So what better way to fit in, and truly appreciate the gravity of the situation, than to dress up. When in Rome, right? I also conned my friends Mike G and Greg into costuming, as well.
We met our contact Nate at Rexall, and proceeded to descend into the depths of the coliseum, to just outside the visiting dressing room, where we signed a waiver (for what, I don't really know), and psyched ourselves up for a bit. There were plenty of trucks to see, and we even got eyeballed by the anthem singer and her boyfriend (like they haven't seen people looking like us before - girl, you sing anthems at a truck event, for fuck sakes). Then, it happened:
Can you say "crazy, if only for a few seconds?" I sure can. Yes, it was short, and the MC ripped the mic out my hands, as if some massive five-ton truck was barreling down on us, but I had a great time! After the shock and awe of it all settled in, we went up to our seats, which were prime to say the least. However, as we reached section 101 and looked at row 16, seats 1-4, some assholes were sitting there. I just assumed that they were confused or just dumb, but Mike and Greg were ready to berate them on their poor seating choice. I got the usher involved instead (I don't want to tarnish my new celebrity status), and he approached the seat poachers. As they left, Mike yells "Britany!", and some girl yells, "Fucker!" Apparently, one of the poachers was one of Mike's ex-girlfriends. I can't think of a better way to get one up on the ex like giving them the fucking boot. It was a delicious scene. The show was on, and we proceeded to drink, eat, generally be merry, and of course, pose for any pictures from our new, adoring fans (and there were some).
Many thanks to Sonic for choosing me as their represntative, many thanks to everyone who voted for me, and many thanks to Nate from LiveNation. Most of all, thanks to the crowd. Thanks for not taking my attempt to ridicule you by way of costume as an insult. It was really appreciated.
In a brand new category of posts, I'd like to answer that age-old burning, and possibly sweaty and drunken, question: "Who's that actor, and where have I seen him/her before?"
Remember that time when you and your friends were sitting around, watching the picture tube and having a few drinks? The conversation was drifting between why your love/hate relationship with the Oilers is reaching near psychotic levels and why Dave's girlfriend could actually be a hooker. All the while, you're trying desperately to find something to do, because frankly, anything's better than just sitting there on a Friday night watching Space Channel's "Friday Frightmare" and drinking sad-man beers. You're watching "Aliens", and then somebody asks the question that sparks a colossal debate: "I've totally seen that actor somewhere. What else has he been in?"
And with that, I'd like to introduce the first actor in a series of posts that deals with answering that elusive, expansive question. The answer to the question is, "Yes, you have seen him before, and no, he wasn't in that show 'Titus'. That was actually Christopher Titus". Our first actor you've seen before is the very underrated and talented Michael Biehn.
Born in Alabama in 1956, Michael eventually attended the University of Arizona, where he enrolled in the drama program, and truly learned what it took to not only be a wildcat on campus, but a wildcat on screen. He was most recently in Planet Terror, from "Grindhouse", but you didn't see that, because when you went to the theatres, you saw "The Reaping" instead. I bet you really regret that now, huh? Let's take a look at some of the films that Michael's presence not only made the film, but he made the viewing experience explode out of your TV and out of your mind!
In The Terminator, Michael shows us his incredible range of talent when he's confronted by a past he's unfamiliar with, and without clothes. Watch the urgency, watch the committment, listen to the awesome dialogue:
Incredible. What year, indeed. You totally remember him in that, right? Now, where else did you see him? How about Aliens? Keep watch at 0:49 and 5:12 to see how an extraordinary actor takes a normal scenario like being attacked by hostile xenomorphic aliens, and makes it his own.
He is a wonder. The shotgun in the aliens mouth, and the line "Eat this!" was your favourite part of the film, wasn't it? You've definitely seen him in other films, though. How about The Seventh Sign? K2? Three films playing a Navy Seal (Navy Seals, The Abyss and The Rock)? One of my personal favourites, is this gem from Tombstone, where he played "Johnny Ringo" with a malicious deliciousness. Let's watch.
I don't know about you, but that scene gave me some old-fashioned goosebumps, like if someone took some cold sarsaparilla and unexpectedly poured it all over my back. That's kind of a dick move, actually.
So the next time someone says, "Hey, I think I've seen him before in something. Wasn't that guy in The Matrix?", simply say, "No, moron. That was Joe Pantoliano." This is Michael Biehn, and you had better show respect. What other actor can put on some bandages, and just fucking act their hearts out? Huh? Nobody.
I am a proud member of the U of A's "7/1 Club" - 7 years, one degree. I am in a perpetual state of mediocrity, although grocery baggers at Safeway seem to disagree. I consider pennies to be useless, but cannot resist picking one off the street, for fear of missed good luck. I cannot tolerate ignorance, but I don't know anyone who is truly ignorant. Some seem to have issues with my acceptance of single life, I say it helps me with making hilarious voices.
