Bad Guys, bad guys, whatcha gonna do?
Favortie bad guy. How do you know who a bad guy is? Well, in horror movies, it's pretty damn easy. Um, Jason is bad. Um, Leatherface is bad. But, really, aren't they all just trying to serve their own goals? Who are you to say they are bad? Like The Thing, Chuckie, and countless other horror movies, they were just doing what they did.
Kill people.
It's what they did and made no excuses.
But, in some movies, there were truely bad people. People with self serving goals. In my case, I wanted to see them achieve their goals. People who weren't killers but could kill. People who could smile at you and shove a knife in your back. You watched the movie and just wondered why he wanted to keep going. Why he didn't get a nice surburban home and watch his kids and dogs. The hell was he doing this for?
Because he was an asshole.
So this is our tribut to our favorite movie villians. We want to know yours cause I'm sure they exist. And, FTTW loves to hear you speak.
Ready?
turtle goes first today.
Angel Eyes, Tuco and Blondie.
Let's face it. No one was clean here.The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly was all about screwing someone over. We all need to get to the gold, but someones gonna die before we touch it. Blondie and Tuco were less evil. They never really wanted anything other then to eat at night and not get a bullet in their back. Tuco would help out poor people who needed some food, but he always had an angle while Blondie just got tired of all the killing. There were others thou who would always be behind them. Always following them because they knew they were keepers. The keepers of the secrets. The keepers of the gold. Angel Eyes had followed them to the prison camp and had infiltrated the union military running the Union prison camp. Angel Eyes tortured Tuco for the information about the gold's location, and eventually got Tuco to break, but when he learned that Blondie knows the name of the grave and not Tuco, he changed tactics.
Figuring that Blondie is "smart enough to know that talking won't save you", he proposed a partnership, and, accompanied by five or six other killers, they left to find the gold. Tuco escapeed from the camp and eventually was found by Blondie.
Angel Eyes
Blondie and Tuco needed each other to find it. They had the puzzle. Angel Eyes just followed. Trying to find out what they knew. Always one step behind. Always with his watch. The ending of this movie was one of the classics of all time. Tuco had dug a grave. Tables were turned. Blondie and Tuco were digging a grave. Angel eyes had found them. And Angel Eyes had the gun. The three of them watching each other while that song played in the background.
Angel Eyes' gun was empty.
It was over. The song ended. The chased weren't being chased anymore. Angel Eyes was dead. The song had ended. And you all know you hated that stupid watch song at the end. You just wanted someone to get popped so you could order a pizza. Cause face it. We all watched this movie on a boring Sunday afternoon.
Tuco was forced to put a rope around his neck. Forced at gunpoint by Blondie to hang himself. Screaming while standing on a broke cross in an old graveyard from a tree, Blondie shot the rope.Tuco fell to the ground.
And Blondie was gone.
At least Tuco got half the gold.
Cause Blondie was cool like that. - T
Michele is up next!
I love villains. Most movies, I root for the bad guy. Cheering on the good guy is so white bread. I need some action. Some danger. I like bad guys. And not just any bad guys, but the ones who are bad to the bone in a quiet kind of way. The perfect villain has to be mean and underhanded. Yet have charm and sexiness. He doesn’t run around town hacking up hookers because he has a small penis. He fights for guts and glory. For vengeance. For power and personal victory over demons of his past. Like a broken heart or being beaten up by bullies or that time he saw his stepfather doing weird things to the cat. And he drives a cool car. Or ship (Think Boba Fett here).
So who’s the best villain? Well, one guy has played all my favorites.
Drexel Spivey, Norman Stansfield and Jean-Baptiste Emanuel Zorg
All played by Gary Oldman. This guy has given life to some of the best villains in the history of film. Even in craptastic movies like Lost in Space, he still managed to bring an air of respectability to the screen. Ok, there was no such thing as respectability with that movie. I still can’t believe he was in it. But for what he had to work with, he did ok.
But his other movies. Oldman was born to the play the bad guy. Those beady eyes. The perfect sneer. The dangerous look. The quiet madness that lurks behind that smile. He’s played a vicious pimp, a corrupt cop, a terrorist, a nasty warden, a crazed futuristic murderer, a deranged punk rocker, an assassin and a famous vampire. He owns the villain market.
A few of his great parts:
Air Force One. The movie was, meh. But Oldman threatens Harrison Ford (playing the president). A villain holding a gun to Harrison Ford's head and making him squirm like a baby? That’s quality entertainment there and Oldman played it perfectly.
In Fifth Element (one of my all time favorite movies), Oldman plays Jean-Baptiste Emanuel Zorg totally over-the-top. It works. In every scene he’s in he eats up the screen and spits out everyone around him. He makes that movie work. “Look at my fingers: four stones, four crates. Zero stones? ZERO CRATES!” He mixes humor with badness so well that you’re not sure if his character is funny or just fucking crazy.
Oldman's best role and one of the best villains ever created was as Agent Norman Stansfield in Leon - aka The Professional (another one of my favorite movies). I fell in love with this character despite his obvious faults. He’s a corrupt cop, but so much more. He oozes evil. There’s not a god damn redeeming thing about him, yet I can’t wait until those moments he is on the screen. You’re riveted by his performance, by the perversity of Stanfield’s wickedness. I like these calm little moments before the storm. It reminds me of Beethoven. Can you hear it? It's like when you put your head to the grass and you can hear the growin' and you can hear the insects. Do you like Beethoven? That's not even the best part. I get shivers down my spine every time I hear him say Death is....whimsical today.
Oldman’s smallest yet best villain role was in (one of my favorite movies, see a trend here?) True Romance. His bit part as pimp master Drexl Spivey ranks among the greatest pieces of cinematic acting ever. He’s so bad, so insidious, so disgusting and vile and nasty He must have thought it was white boy day. It ain't white boy day, is it? ) that you can’t help but be drawn to this character. Oldman packed so much into that small performance that you think about him long after he gets what’s coming to him. Pimpin' ain't easy.
So if I had to pick the most badass villain from all of Oldman's roles, it would Normal Stansfield from Leon.
- M
So that was our take on the villians that we think are cool.
Always remember.....
A villain is just a villain in someone else's eyes.
So who are yours?
The best bad guy?
Fine. I'll admit it. I got drunk one night and did something on my leg. I still think it is cool, what I did that is, but it was something that you do when you drank too many beers and have a roomate with a tat gun. I think it still looks cool. Sometimes I regret it, but still, meh. It is a tribute to one of the greatest characters ever. I think. God, that sounds stupid. But at four in the morning, it was drilled on my......jeez. I'm just gonna stop now. I was drunk and I got it. Fuck, every day I thank god I don't have a Playboy Bunny on my ass or something like "Fun Hole" above my ass with an arrow pointing down. Wait. we are talking about toys here, right?
One. Two. Three. Fuck!
The thing about this song is, I never really gave much thought to why it makes me cry. It just does. And we're not talking some sniffling and few tears here. This song makes me bawl. Heaving sobs of despair and angst. It depresses me and makes me sad and fills me with this sense of hopelesness. I never tried to dig too deep into why it did. Too much to think about it. Though I always kind of knew what the trigger was because are some parts that make me more weepy than others. 
Clean and lean. Read the post and check your pants cause here comes another.
Or more specifically Donner Lake and the Tahoe Donner area. There is a house up there that I have full access to. Somewhere I go when I just wanted to get away from everything. Lake Tahoe is an hour away from most places in Northern California. 
Cause the trees, they talked shit to her. Light up another cigar and throw more salmon on the grill (once again, fuck you for you for laughing at me) sit down in the chair and listen to Mr. Diamond sing about how he was dumped again. Man, this dude has no luck. I think he just gave up and started singing about America cause his balls dropped off him from lack of sex. Hell, I don't know. But all of his songs are kinda sad. Ya know, you would think someone with that much talent would be getting a lot of play. Maybe he isn't into 60 year old housewives.
Naked man with his cowboy boots and cowbay hat walking into a garage.
See, when you start to get some recognition, you can start writing titles that have your name in it. It wasn't the cheesy low budget move from the 50's anymore. It was now the cheesy low budget John Carpenter movie from the 80's. Hey. Don't confuse one with the other, ok? This one had Kurt Russell in it. And maybe Scatman Crothers. Maybe Goldie Hawn. And maybe Donkey Kong for all the fuck I cared. This movie scared the living crap out of me. It dragged me down thinking of some poor guys trapped in an ice town just getting knocked off one by one. And also Goldie naked in the bathtub in "Wildcats". And Ernest Borgnine in "Escape from New York." Snake Plisskin. Issac Hayes. Naked Goldie. Cause we thought Snake was dead. 
"The fire's got the temperature way up all over camp... won't last long though".
I was in maybe first grade when my Mom got me hooked on Dark Shadows and Vincent Price movies. Other kids gathered around the tv with their family on Sunday evenings to watch Wonderful World of Disney. We stayed up late together on Friday nights to watch Chiller Theater. I think watching so much horror from such an early age sort of desensitized me. As I got older I realized that, while I enjoyed scary movies as much as always, I just didn’t get that frightened. I didn’t jump when everyone else did or scream when everyone else did. What I mean is, the movies just didn’t scare me while I was in the theater. It wasn’t until I got home and was by myself in the dark that I turned into a pussy. But I bet a lot of you are the same way. I’m just admitting it.
Three different horror stories, all starring Karen Black. Fuck if I can remember what the other two were about. I just remember the one. The tribal doll. That creepy, evil little doll with the knife and the leer.
When she hears the pitter patter of little feet in the kitchen, you know. You want to say to her, get the hell out of the apartment, woman, that doll is gonna spear you! But the doll says, fuck this spear, I need me a knife. He finds a butcher knife. As he torments Black, he repeatedly stabs the knife into the floor. With that look on his face. Mind you, this thing is only like a foot tall, if that. And he moves real quick. And he has this ugly, snarling face of pure evil. 
Yeah, we all have our favorites and yeah, a lot of them have been cut to shit due to PC crap so the only way you can really get them is if you get them on DVD. So if you watched them anytime between the 70's and now, you got cut up crap that took all the shotguns out. And the mayhem. And the violence. I blame Clinton. Or Ford. Or Carter. Or Reagan. Or my mom overcooking my burrito. I can point fingers. I can do that. Because I'm the Governor.
But none with Porky Pig. Because Porky, he doesn’t wear pants. And that’s just wrong. Bugs can wear a dress, that’s ok in my book. But a pig who wears a shirt should really be wearing pants. But that’s a whole other rant for another day.
I needed that. I needed that sound. I looked at my bass in shame after I heard her sound. She had that sound I needed. That cool "I'm better than I look" of the shape of the bass. How you could hold it up as you walked into the dust just holding it by one hand. That was what I wanted. But, after looking them over, I decided that there would be no way in hell I could ever afford on of those. Pipe dreams. Put it away. Let it go.
Fucked up and broken up. Pickups torn off and paint faded. Fifty bucks. I picked it up and looked at it. I held it. It was real. It was hurt, but it was real. Beat down too many times but screaming to come back up. I could do this. I could make it sing again.
F: Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead
But, there was one thing. I had to pull it off and put it on the ground. The air filter would be dead for about five minutes before it was dry enough to be useable again. Then I could put it back on and be good to go. Exposed for five minutes. Those little bastards shot the shit out me while I just waited for it to dry off.
I had been working at my uncle’s deli for about two years. The thought of spending another summer slicing salami for drinking money wasn’t sitting too well with me. I was tired of making sandwiches for cranky old men. Tired of pouring coffee for disgruntled postal workers. Tired of screaming at kids to get their bikes away from the door. Tired of smelling like head cheese. 
Between her breath and her attitude, I was feeling a bit put off. I quickly weighed my options. What was this job going to pay me anyhow? If I couldn't make a “sale” I would be bringing home less than minimum wage. It would barely pay for a shot of tequila. I could go back to the deli. It wasn't so bad.The people were nice. I didn't have to make anyone cry in order to sell a pound of liverwurst. Yea, maybe I made a few kids cry when I told them they looked just like a Garbage Pail kid. but damn those kids for not being able to take a joke. 
This will be a quick post cause we are doing something bigger tonight, but the bottom line is, this made us smile. Most of this stuff is pretty much us, which is weird, but really who knows. 
Few friends could be as caring and affectionate, as quirky and surprising, or as genuinely interested as the Tiger. (I won’t show up anywhere I say I will, but I’ll be very upset about disappointing you)
Trust, passion, politeness and spontaneity are only a few characteristics of the Tiger mate. (I will ask nicely before I tie you up)
I just stood there and looked at him. He put his fake sword up to my neck. Told me I needed to come to the Zoo with him. I looked at the ground and stepped on my cigarette. Asked him what time it was. He told me. Asked him for a cigarette. He had none. Told him I was from America. He said ok. Asked him where the nearest liquor store was. He looked at me and said, "I guess this means you're not coming to the zoo?"
See the show and go. Sometimes it works that way. So I was ready. Let's go to the show.
Hey, wasn't I just drinking beer with you? He pushes me backstage and a flyer was pushed into my pocket. After show. Private party. Cool. I'll be there. A few bands and beer. Turbo just blew up that night. They were back. But then, it was over. That was it. They did play for about an hour and a half, but I wanted more.
"Klidgo" got in your way. Now "Klidgo" gets a ride. Or maybe he was named "Bob". Hell if I know.Things get shaky after too much coffee for me so I don't know. Him barely hanging on to the blower sticking out of the engine as he readies his spear to toss thru the windshield at you. Fast right turn. He is gone. Body flips off the car in the dust as he yells at you. Meh. He will still be at your kegger next week. Don't worry about him. He's ok. More coffee. Push the accelerator down. Light another cigar and pet the dingo. Let the speed force it's way into your lungs and laugh at the lame ass American counter-part. You had it. We didn't
Hey. I’m a gamer. It’s what I do. Plus, I’ve been playing Crash Team Racing all day. The original one. On my old Playstation. Cause I’m old school like that. But then I switched to Crash Tag Team Racing. That sucks. I don’t want to go on these stupid quests. I want to drive. 
So she went off and did some kind of shopping. Fuck if I know. I was hungry. I asked someone where the nearest food place was and he pointed me off in the distance. "Best food I will ever have." My ass. If it's over a block away, I'll just eat this carrot from this nice looking Asian woman. Might help my eyesight. No, fuck that. Ask someone else, turtle. 
Gimmie two extra tortillas! Gimmie a large coke then leave me the fuck alone and don't tell me how to eat it!
Oh, I hated him. His little white suit and his "I'm your slave" ways put a knife in the back of Mr. Barty. Little people weren't your slaves. I don't care how you talk to Mr. Montablan, just don't fuck with us. Cool attitude when they were seen as jokes or genetic mishaps. But, you know what? Billy kept moving. He got better. Moving on to the big time. Little House. The pinnacle of all TV shows. He had made it as far as I was concerned. Explaining to Half Pint how little people have feelings too. If that didn't bring a tear to your eyes, nothing will. He just wanted to be considered equal. And you know what? In lot of ways he wasn't our equal. He was our better. 
Using them for a drunken sideshow. Someone told him it was all in good fun. The look of anger in Mr. Barty's eyes. Seething. Breathing hate. He had been working his whole life to stop things like this. This guy wouldn't listen. Boiling point. Steam explostion. He jumped out of his chair towards the bar owner and attacked him. Sure, there was no way he way gonna win. But, he had to do it.
. Hate them. I bought Star Wars Battlefront just because you can kill Ewoks in it. I’d come home from work, throw the game in and take out all my frustration at life by shooting those motherfuckers at close range. Ever hear an Ewok cry? Well, neither have I. But I bet it sounds like heaven. 
The pinnacle of this series was Leprechaun in the Hood. Turtle thinks he wins because his favorite little person actor was some kind of do-gooder hero. But dude. My guy? He made a horror movie about a bad ass leprechaun with Ice T and Coolio. It doesn’t get much better than that. Really. That makes up for his being a pussy ewok by far.
I was fixated on this album. Every day. All day long. I thought they were geniuses. The greatest band to ever exist. Those lyrics! So...existential. So cool. It wasn't until many years later that I realized most Zeppelin songs were nothing more than Tolkein fanfic and Jimmy Page was not the greatest guitar player ever. But you know what? This album still kicks ass. And listening to Black Dog takes me back to a summer spent sitting in a sump, getting high and feeling like I owed the world nothing and I wanted nothing from it. The freedom of a 13 year old. Remembering that feeling is kinda cool.
Give Em Enough Rope in this spot. I always feel the need to deny that I'm a VH fan. Or to justify it. It's their fault for letting things get the way they did. I have to clarify all the time. Van Halen. Not Van Hagar. Not that fucking waste of vinyl with Gary Cherone. Just Van Halen. David Lee Roth. I know Eddie was the music behind VH, but they were nothing without Diamon Dave. Yea, he's a clown, maybe an asshole, but he was one of the greatest rock and roll frontmen ever. 
This is another thing about FTTW. We will do anything you ask unless it involves anything about sheep sex. And that's a personal problem I have. Michele and I are working that out and I would kinda like to keep that between us. Cause sheep are just so sexy. 
Vomit. Call her again. She found speed. Good god she came thru. Everyone in the car was detoxing off some sort of drug. Everyone was nursing a beer back trying to get comfy. I was coming down hard. We had just got off a big tour and all of us were filled with our drugs of choice the whole time. But the shows had ended. The fans had left. Backstage was closed. The drugs were gone. I resolved to deep six myself in the back of the car. I slugged back vodka and Mountain Dew. Keeping some shots down, some coming us. The driver looking back at me with his head trembling. Drugs will be there. I reassured him. We were going to be ok. 
They were playing video games. Some people were anyways. I didn't know them. Shook my head and slammed a beer. I started playing what was the best video game ever. 
Anyhow, we had season tickets for the Isles, but that wasn’t enough. We wanted to see them on the road, too. We went to Philly, Toronto, Montreal, Pittsburgh, Boston, Hartford...
We’re all wearing Islanders jerseys (#9, Clark Gillies. Holy shit, I just realized I can still remember the number of every player on that year’s team) or jackets or hats. We get looks. This is Boston. They don’t like us very much to begin with. And here we come marching into their arena flaunting our team’s Stanley Cup. This bad blood goes beyond hockey. It’s a baseball thing, too. So you can just feel the hatred as we settle into our seats. 
Seth's grandma gets knocked in the head with two plastic cups. My little sister is drenched in beer. I’m about to grab her and get her the hell out of there when she stands up - I think she was all of 13 years old here - and says to the guy sitting behind us “You realize you just wasted four bucks by throwing that beer at me? You people aren’t that smart, are you?” And then the ice rained down. And we started throwing back. It was like a winter storm watch in our section for about ten minutes until the security guards finally got there. They started grabbing onto anyone with an Islander jersey on and hauling us out of our seats. 
The Clash and the Jam. Rush and Brian Eno. Cheap Trick and The Who. We pride ourselves on our eclectic taste in music (I think we would be called music snobs today) as much as we pride ourselves in what we didn’t listen to: Pop music. Disco. Bruce Springsteen.
"So, who's playing?" Kevin asks the guard. He rolls his eyes again. "Only Leo Sayer!"
it was a put together group with a few big name underground players. Somehow the lead singer came out of his hiding from Florida and decided to put his words to music and do a little tour. This band is long gone now, but for a brief shining second, we all got to see Jesse from Op Ivy on stage again. Sure it was mellow. Sure he was beat down. Sure he knew the merch ropes. And sure, he was still cool. I never bothered to ask him about his buddhist phase. It didn't matter. He was back. Of course the show sold out quick. I think they did like five shows in total before he disappeared again and the other bandmates went back to their respective bands. But, for that one brief second, you could feel his energy again.
From behind some fence. Light blue wall. I sucked in air to get my head somewhat right. Bummed a smoke off a worker. Sat down low. Crouched on my knees and just watched. Keep low and get ready to run again. Something either was happening or wasn't happening. I have no clue what the scene was but the entire cast of Snow White was marching out beside me. Snow White was telling me I couldn't smoke there. Shut the fuck up. She kept yelling. I flipped a cigarette at one of the dwarves and nailed him in the back. Snow White was fucking pissed. She came up and just yelled at me. I have no idea why, but she just kept yelling. I wasn't doing anything wrong. So why did I have this crappy, bad trip abomination from some shitty cartoon yelling at me?
A little island in the middle of the park. With some kind of cave and a little beach. Hey, I'm from California so beaches are where I live. Well, beaches and "Wendy's". Well, maybe not "Wendy's" any more. I get alot of shit for the crap food I eat from Michele. So let's just say "I'm from California and get over it. I like beaches and Panera salads." Just cut my balls off, Michele. Here's the knife.
Fuck if I know. All I knew was by the reaction on this guys face, I better stand up. My brother, as he always does, remained oblivious of the whole situation. German dad walked towards him and asked him what he said. Brother says "What?" German dad pushes him. Brother looks at me confused. German dad pushed him again. Turtle flicks his smoke out in the water he wanted to swim in. Brother says you need to leave me alone. German dad pushes him again. Turtle grabs him by the neck and moves him back to the wall. 
Think how bad it is gonna be when I hit my mid life crisis. Hell, I'm covered in ink now and I'm only 34. I can't wait to see what happens when I'm 40. If I live that long I'll be flirtin' with disaster like fucking Molly Hatchet style. Maybe a motorcycle and some cool leather clothes. Neck tattoo saying "I can still kick your ass" or "Mama loves me," I still don't know. 
And some LSD. What did my brother have? No smokes, cause to this day he loves to bum smokes off me. I hate social smokers. They fucking piss me off. Especially when they have a lighter. That really pisses me off. "I have no smokes, but I can light it if you give me one!" That's like being half retarded. Grrrrrr.
That fucks with the mind of a 15 year old. It’s supposed to be that kids get scared and parents tell them to calm the hell down because there’s nothing to be afraid of. But New York was in financial ruin, the city was falling apart from crime and arson and fear and while all that stuff was happening beyond our little suburb, but you could feel it creep in, as if our fathers brought a little of it home each day when they came home from their city jobs. We heard it at the dinner table and in overheard conversations between adults. Our parents were scared.
They saw it, too. Something happened. By the time we got up and walked to my house, news of 
Watching those games against the Dodgers, listening to the sounds of the cheers, New York seemed good again. It seemed whole. Sort of. Game 2 of that series, they showed a close up of a burning building behind Yankee Stadium. Howard Cosell said "There it is, ladies and gentlemen, the Bronx is burning." And that seemed to sum up the summer of 1977 right there. 
Somedays suck, some days I can't stop laughing. But since today I have to do other things, we decided to do Most Underrated Actor. I had about six paragraphs telling you why one particular actor was kickass, but my computer crashed. I lost it all. So that goes on the back burner. What to do next. Shit, I'm running out of time. The wind was taken out of my sails. Michele's seemed to never get going. See, one of the best parts of this site is how we work off each other. She helps me and I help her. We bounce ideas for stories until we find one that is perfect. Or sometimes ones that suck. It happens.
A little alien that is owned by Strong Bad in the land of Strongbadia. Strong Bad kicks him a lot and he makes little sqeaks when he is kicked. Everyone knows him. He is my favorite character. Somehow Michele picked up on this and found it. He kinda hates his life and lives for fucking up others shit. He sleeps in an abanded BBQ grill and just wants to be left alone. You can't understand what he says, but you know when he is pissed. Well, I got that in the mail today. And it is fucking cool.
but when it will see the light of the sunshine is anyone's guess. 
Imagine someone knocking on your door while you are totally naked and sitting on your sofa. Getting up and looking for clothes. Telling them to hold on while they crashed on your sofa. Lighting a cigar and sitting in this crappy swivel chair. Ash, inhale, scratch balls, ash. Then I had to go out and help some poor kid. No rest for the wicked.
. A box filled with some of the strangest things you could ever think of. Well, not to alot of you, but to some people. It got us thru alot. Bright red and filled with treasures from the sea. 
The tack gun was for anytime we had to play an emergency show. Flyers. Place, post, tack, move on. It happens. When you sleep at band's houses they tend to hook you really fast. Like today. You have to play in 8 hours. We got you a show. Grab the tack and hit Kinko's. Let's get this done. Place, post and tack. Move on. We needed that in there.
Flashlight. Batteries. Duct tape. A butter knife. A 1978 autographed Ron Guidry baseball card. Hey, it was with the books. It stays. Maybe whoever rescues us will be some mean spirited jackhole who demands payment. No, you can’t have my daughter in exchange for my freedom. But Ron Guidry? Cy Young winner, dude. Take this card as a token of my gratitude. See, I’m always thinking ahead.
You may think the cold war ended, but they are still carrying a grudge. I worry about these things. It’s what I do. I lay awake at night and think about tsunamis and earthquakes and things that never happen here and a voice in my head, a voice that sounds like God imitating Elvis, says “never say never. Mwahahaha.” 
Walk away. It was too much fun to have people think that my dad could order a hit on them if they ever got on my wrong side.
Like the one about having to scrub blood and bits of flesh out of the trunk of the Lincoln one Saturday and how I did such a good job that some guy named Uncle Carmine gave me twenty dollars and let me see his gun. And by gun, I mean...gun.
The door is locked. Odd. I ring my own doorbell.
'Wow. Dad. That was...shit. That was fucked up, dad. You totally fucked me up there, dad. Now what are they gonna think? Man, mom's gonna be pissed.
Not just any Elvis. This one is of the white jumpsuit era. And he's made of velvet. Don't ask. Just know that he talks to me and offers me advice on love life, usually along the lines of "Turtles, Michele. Turtles." Last night he was eating a turkey leg at my wedding. He got some grease in his velvet, but he had a lady friend, this chubby, Mexican cocktail waitress that hangs around my dreams with him, who cleaned him up with a rag and some Windex. Velvis cleans up good.
Who would win? Her savior or her heated loins? I don't think she was even really a nun in that movie, anyhow. Which kind of sucks for Elvis, because that means they started their relationship of with a lie. He thought he was going to get busy with a nun. That was probably the whole attraction right there. Turns out she wasn't really holy. So what was that shit about "I'm saving for myself for Jesus?" Did she mean her gardner? Oh, there might have been a donkey in this movie, too. I don't think the donkey figured into the love scenes, but it was there. I'll have to ask Velvis about that if I see him tonight. Geez, this isn't even the movie I'm supposed to be writing about. That was 69. My sister was born in 69, does that count? No. Hmm. Ok, moving on.
Tv warming up. Scatch my eyes and look what we have here. Toasted "o's". That's a bad sexual reference. Frosted Mini Wheats. Another reference. Althou I think that one is more of a bukkaki like move. Keep looking. Pirate. I need the pirate. Was the pirate here? Did he leave on another mission? Did he go off on some weird adventure involving the Soogies again? Or did mom just forget to buy it at the store? Its gotta be here. The yellow box smiled at me. It was Saturday. The Cap'n was here. He had landed ashore.
How gay is that? I'd rather have a utility belt that blows shit up rather the swim with the Sea Urchins. Fucking Urchins. They should've revoked Aqauman's hetreosexual pass back in the 70's. For all I know he is telepathically communicating with squid to suck his "white coral" off by now. Gay underwater fish sex. That's a new one. 
I'm done with that shit. Walk in and buy a piece of pizza and head to the bathroom. Or portapotties. Or whateverthefuck they have here. Looking around I saw something. Oh christ. What is that? 
These guys spent a couple of minutes with me and suddenly they started talking to me about the lies of the government and how Norway should stick together and not sell out to the Euro. David Bowie started playing. My head was spinning. They asked me to come back to their house.
head over to Cullen's site and put in some nominations for the 
Oh god. I’ve been caught with my emo on. 
Last meal? I am in jail? Zombie infestation? Lex Luthor push the “destroy all humans” button? Well, for argument’s sake, let’s pretend that this last meal is being cooked for me and served to me. Because if I have to cook my own last meal, it’s gonna be a blueberry frosted pop-tart toasted for thirty seconds. Not that it’s my favorite thing, just the easiest. Takes even less strength than opening a can of chili. Really, the prison scenario is the most likely one that will get me this meal. I don’t think the cooks over at Runyon’s are gonna be making any bisque if Lex Luthor is on the loose. What am I on death row for? Let’s just say it involved a person who did not signal before changing lanes. And a signed Dan Pasqua baseball bat that I keep in the back seat of my car. For just such an occasion. 
Last thing I knew I was parking on my neighbors lawn and now I'm looking at Father Whateverthefuck in the face asking me if I want some kind of prayer for my soul. Parking tickets, Father, they were just parking tickets. I just parked on someones lawn. That's all I did. Forgive me Father. Let the Lord forgive me.
Funny thing is if you go into a sushi place and ask them for the "chef's choice" they will give you the "whatever the chef still has from last night" or salmon. So always order the yellowtail. Or tuna. Or they might be the same thing. Hell if I know. All I know is that even in California I can't say salmon without getting laughed at. I guess I say it funny. So I'm sticking with yellowtail. And I might even say that funny. Fuck you. I don't care. 
The 70's - Ramones - s/t 
80-84 - Black Flag - Damaged
85-89 - 7 Seconds -Walk Together Rock Together
The Dwarves - Blood, Guts, and Pussy
While this album is certainly not their best, it is still typical Turbo; raunchy, vulgar party music. It’s a little different musically than the albums before it, more produced, really, which takes away some of the edge the other LPs had, but it’s still a pretty cool album. And it has Ride With Us, which is a real kick ass song. Is it the best punk album of the 00's? Well, here at FTTW it is, because you made it that way. The turbo alliance came through and voted this one in. Honestly, I’m pretty happy with the results and I think Turtle is, too. 
The DJ was telling everyone to come to our house. Well shit. We gotta do something. What do we got? A frantic search of the house revealed two bags of ice, a bottle of Thunderbird, two bottles of Everclear, and a 2 liter of 7-Up. 
Worst thing I ever drank? Hmm. I've downed a lot of bad, homemade concoctions in my time. But none of them were the worst.
The Twinkie doesn't really have that bad of a name. Just kind of a step in to where they were going with this. Just a little step. A little taste. Not many people got the Twink reference. But really, it had a cowboy as its mascot. Ready to rope you. Fill you with his creamy goodness. Tie you up and have a shelf life that could stand a nuclear war. He would stay hard forever. Till you were done sucking his creme. Stick your tongue deep into the creamy goo and suck it back. The cowboy won't untie you, twink, until he is all the way inside you. Keep sucking till the yellow dong of spongecake is done. The cowboy wants it. He wants you to eat his cream.
I mean hell, all you have to do is pierce its nipples and get them a float on Gay Pride Day in San Francisco and you got yourself a blue ribbon in the "Gayest Food Ever Named" category. This was a cake you had to think about before you ate it. You might need to use protection on this one. Glory Holes. Thy name is Hostess Sno-balls.
I had a tough time with this one. Sleater Kinney put out The Woods, but that was a dark album that only really hardcore fans would like. And in my opinion, not the record of the half decade. Boston seemed to be moving the most back then. Go figure. A band from there grabbed my attention at a show. Bunch of off kids pissed about us older punks fucking up. 
Or quarrel, as the case may be. Basically, this album is a reworking of Age of Quarrel, but I don't care because I'm really hard up to find something to review for this decade and this is gonna be it.
If you live in Southern California, there probably is one next door to you. If you live in Anaheim, you might wanna go into your kitchen and make sure they aren't burning the beans as they pass food out your driveway.
*
Like the pilgrims and the Indians, I walked over with my peace pipe. In this case it was a beer and a large pepperoni, but you get the point. Pizza was shared, beer was passed. 
Home of the slider. I need food. White Castle isn’t really food. But it will do in a pinch. We stumble in, I swear about 40 of us roll out of this Honda Civic like clowns on crack, and we’re full of noise and arrogance and vodka. Heads turn. I know, this is White Castle at 3am, whoever is in there is probably just as drunk as us, but still. We’re loud. And we have funny hair and our clothes are a mess. Is that boy’s hair...blue? Spiked? Is that girl wearing a shirt that says “fuck off and die?” No, not me. My shirt was just plain black and stained with toothpaste. Yea, toothpaste. How do you think we got Danny’s hair to stand up like that? Oh, Danny. Shit. What are you doing, Danny? Christ. He’s over in the corner. Puking. Inside White Castle. The manager comes over. We’re gone. We’re gone before we can even inhale the grease. Denied the Castle.
Don't ask me why my parents agreed to let me go, given my reputation for causing or getting into trouble. Maybe they figured the chaperones - Catholic high school teachers - were of high moral fiber and integrity and would watch us like Jesus watching down from the cross. Saving our souls from the dangers of Disney, I guess.
I had some ridiculous flavor of wine in my hand - not a glass but the whole bottle. Strawberry something? All I remember is that it was way too sweet and I kept washing the flavor away with shots of something that someone had stolen from motel bar. Might have been Goldschlager. Something that was like huffing gasoline through your esophagus.
Everything's unreal. I can't tell if I'm dreaming or awake or maybe dead already and God's really pissed at me and he's making me spend eternity at this stupid motel party in Kissimmee. I'm going under again. Eyes rolling back in head. This is not good.
"You have to keep her head up so she doesn't choke on her own vomit."
I can't really remember if they had a opening or closing of the bar. It seemed like it was always open, but I really can't remember.
Hands down the greatest record ever put out. This is the number one album on my list for all time. This is it folks. This is the one. It's has a close runner up called Turbonegro, but even that doesn't beat this one. This was a record I heard while drinking beer at a record station one night. No, I didn't work there. Me and the DJ got drunk and went in. We were bored and had a punk rock playlist from the station which we promptly tossed into the trash. He didn't work there much longer after that. Open the mail. NEW CDS! That whats cool about that kinda gig. Free stuff in the mail everyday. But really there was nothing good this week. So we went about doing a fake interview with him asking me questions, and me being the bass player of L7. I dropped my voice as low as it could go and talked about feminine hygiene products for about a half hour before the door was opened and some guy told us to knock it off. Meh. We got some cool phone calls though. Anyways, the record. He put it on later in the night. Turned around and told me that we are listening to this whole thing. From the opening kick...."I had a friend he said he was an artist knew more then the average schmuck". What was this? Welcome to Crypt records! Garage rock. Gritty. Out of control. EVERY SONG ON HERE KICKS ASS. Weird titles. Songs about dragstrip riots, hating your girl friend. Bluesy, fast, loud, out of control, one mic for the whole riser. This was a style. This was garage punk. Sure they could have cleaned it up, but the sound needed to be this way. When you hear the bass rattle the hi-hat cause the bass players amp is right next to the drums, you know this is garage. We spent hours getting that sound out of recordings when we were in the studio. They didn't give a fuck about it. They just left the sound in. Welcome to garage punk. Welcome to more branching off of punk. Hands down the best album ever. This was power. That was raw.
Yea, I've already reviewed this album before. So I'll just keep this short. This album will blow you away. It's punk, it's rock, it's who knows what the hell else. Glam rock. Power rock. Trash punk. Kind of undefinable. I mean, they sing about pizza. PIZZA! And the rest of the album is kind of a homoerotic tribute to anal sex. I think. Maybe not. Maybe that's just me. Rock Against Ass? Rendezvous With Anus? Maybe I'm onto something. This album is all kinds of vulgar and trashy and totally over the top. But it's got grooves. It's got hooks. It makes you want to throw a party where stuff will be broken and people will end up in a coma. Listen, if you can listen to this and sing about the Prince of the Rodeo and throw out lines like "sperminator of the asshole" without feeling the least bit self aware or umm..gay, then you get it. Turbo makes you do that. Sing about asses and sexy denim and buns of steel and make you still feel like you are totally punk rock. That's an accomplishment. 
He would save the world. They knew it. He would. Yeah, pretty cheesy foreshadowing but hell, this was the early 80’s.
Ok, the movie. Yes, there was a plot to go with the gimmick. It had all the hallmarks of a disaster flick. Airport survivor George Kennedy. Skyjacked and Soylent Green hero Charlton Heston. 
Yes, I'll always remember the terrifying moment in Earthquake when the little boy almost got electrocuted, and I'll never forget Heston's torn between two lovers moment, nor the upside down cows in the truck or the elevator scene where the dead man takes a breath or Richard Roundtree's lightning bolt jumpsuit or Victoria Principal's oh-so-tight t-shirt, but it will always be Gortner's Jody that will define this movie for me. Hey, maybe he was a metaphor for the earthquake itself - a predator, a destroyer of lives. Yes, that's it! The movie was not as bad as you all think because it worked on so many different levels! Like an Iron Maiden song! Two levels! 
Something about a show and Cher and mom's brithday and mom and his not being able to handle crowds so he can't go and him only trusting me to take her and how he is so sorry to throw this on me but she is crying cause he told her couldn't take it........
He looked at me with a quizzacle stare on his face. Asked me what I said. I told him again. He looked at all of his friends. Looked back at me. Then slowly asked if that was a new sex postion or was that a new type of piercing.
So when he was arrested and it was all over the news I didn’t recognize the name at first. But then I saw the pictures. I knew that face. I knew that posture. I knew that guy. Yea, that will give you the creeps. And it’s not like I’m thinking “oh my god, I came so close to being murdered by him!” like some people do in situations like that, because I wasn’t a hooker and hookers seemed to be the only thing on his menu. That and turkey sandwiches with mustard and tomato. And sometimes a Slim Jim. That’s how you know people when you work at a deli for so long. You see them on the street and you say “hey, there’s pack of Marlboro, coffee two sugars!” When we saw Rifkin on tv, it was “hey, there’s turkey sandwich and a Slim Jim!” 
Two power houses are now going to play and whomever wins will get their cocks sucked in any bar they go into. They took on the world. And guess what? They got to the next game. So who will win?
Because at that point in my life I thought Italians all wore pinstripe suits and fedoras and carried around machine guns in violin cases. Unless you were my grandfather. Then it was a wine stained wifebeater and a pair of chinos. Grandma? She was always in one of those baggy house dresses with her boobs hanging down to the ground, resting just at the spot where her pantyhose started to bunch up. I don’t think Mrs. Marjoroski wanted me to come to school dressed like any of that.
Hey Turtle. Turbonegero is getting back for one show. One show only. They are getting back together. Quart Festival. You wanna go?" You have to remember Turbonegro broke up years before. This was a band that was gone for awhile and influenced most bands around after they had left. They suddenly disappeared. They got big when they were gone. We had missed something big. We had to go. We had to see them. Make up for us just finding the album two years after they had broken off and traveled to their regions of Norway to never talk to each other again. But something changed. They were back! One night. Let's go.
When it is turned upside down, a small amount is put into the head. The you just shove it up your nose and inhale. God, that sounds gay. I was also armed with a bottle of Afrin loaded down in about 50 bucks worth of dope. You want to see jesus? Knock a shot of that back in your nose. I fucking couldn't tell you if it was day or night. But, sorority girls dude. Sorority girls!
I guess it was for the waiters to come out to on a smoke break. So I sat down and just looked at the stars. I stared up and I stared down. The constellations were so perfect. The sky so clear. The air so fresh. The ti.....
I had a following. I was the Pinball Wizard. 7-11 wasn't quite the same as Pinball Palace, but Kevin had his portable cassette player and we listened to Thin Lizzy and Wish You Were Here while I worked the flippers. Every day. Bell rings. Class dismissed. Walk across street. Smoke joint. Drop quarters. Special when lit!
But, she kept coming after me. This wasn't supposed to happen. Crap. I have a dog. It took her a few weeks to get back up to speed and become a dog that was full on dog. But, she did it all on her own. Sure, she has some scars and a few bruises, but she is the greatest dog in the world. She needed help at that time. Someone to pick her up. I was there to dust her off. But, in the end, she could do it on her own. 
Another one. Me yelling at him to stop. Another one fires. Benny the 16 lights up in flames. Direct hit. My friend takes some bites when he grabs her. Puts her on the ground. Stops the burning. Looking up at me yelling that this needs to stop. Do something about it!
Did I mention I’m afraid of water as well as heights? And being sideways in a roller coaster car? Yea, this was working out well for me. Not. There were several times during the ride I was sure that I was having a heart attack. I was sure the track was falling apart. I was sure I wasn’t buckled in right. I was sure the train was falling off the track into the water. No, it wasn’t very deep water. But, hey, it was New Jersey water. That in and of itself is pretty damn scary.
Not a click. Not a rush of wheels on the wooden track as the coaster flies downward. Not a scream of delight. Pure silence. No movement. My. Fucking. God. My absolute worst nightmare has come to light. We are stuck on the absolute highest point of a wooden roller coaster. Holy. Shit. I am going to die. I am going to die. Ok, don’t panic. Yea, too fucking late for that. Panic city, baby. Don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t look...what the hell? The car is shaking. What’s going on? I open my eyes, which had been squeezed shut and see that my friends are making all kinds of commotion in their cars. They are waving to everyone down below, crowds who have stopped to gasp at the stuck coaster car. They are screaming. With delight. Talking about getting out of the safety bar and climbing down the tracks. Laughing. Enjoying every minute of this. Me, I’m in the first car. I stare straight ahead because I don’t want to look down. But all I see is air. Sky. Empty space. I freak out. I start crying. I’m screaming something about wanting to go home, wanting my mommy, wanting off this crazy thing and not wanting to die in fucking New Jersey. I’m 17 years old. I have a life to live. A bright future ahead of me. I am not going to die in New Jersey. I am not going to die in a coaster. Friends yelling, laughing, rocking the car. My head in my hands, eyes closed again, shaking like I had been out naked in a blizzard. People don’t understand phobias. They don’t know the grip of fear when you are faced with the thing that makes you most frightened. They were all slapping me upside the head, telling me to get over it and have some fun with them. Pulling on my safety bar. 
They sat down. Stared hard at me. Wondered if I would follow through on that threat and then remembered the time I sprayed a purple and red rainbow of Boones Farm wine puke all over James’s beloved army jacket and they shut up quick. Just then, a park worker appeared beside us as if by magic. Yea, he used the labyrinth of wood underneath the coaster to climb up to us, but it seemed like magic. “Everyone sit down and stay still. We’re ready to bring you back down.” He was all professional and business like. Hands and arms inside the car at all times and all that. He disappeared like a rat in a tunnel and suddenly we were in motion again. The free fall down the incline did not feel so much like freedom this time. It felt like nausea. I wanted off this ride. I wanted out of this park, out of New Jersey. I wanted to go home. The whole thing took place in about seven minutes but it seemed like seven hours. When we finally got out of the car and walked away from the ride, I wanted to kiss the ground like an astronaut coming home to mother earth. Instead, I headed straight for the parking lot, to our waiting bus. There was only about a half hour left of this school trip, anyhow. I slept the rest of it off. 
Since we are tired today, the dog gets "New Chicken Flavor Alpo." I know it's more expensive but I'm outta nails. Plus nailing your dog to a 2x4 is something you only saw on those 70's "Made for TV Movies." 
1983. One of the most action packed years of my life. A constant stream of parties and clubs. So many nights spent in someone’s garage listening to our friends’ band practice and then driving to the club to watch them play, then out to another club to make some spastic attempts at dancing to punk rock and gothy new wave. The soundtrack to that time was a bizarre mix of The Police, New Order, Circle Jerks, Aztec Camera and Metallica. And Iron Maiden. Minutemen. Big Country. Suicidal Tendencies. Man, that was a good year for music. The The! U2's last good album! PiL! Kurtis Blow! Yea, that’s right. Kurtis Blow.
Dave’s pitching a no hitter. We sat mesmerized in the yard, squinting at the smallish tv, trying to see past the sun glares, drinking, eating and watching history being made. When the game was over and Righetti had thrown a no-hitter (the Yankees’ first since 1956) we all raised a plastic cup of beer to the Yankees, Dave Righetti and America. Oh yea, patriotism runs deep when you are drunk on beer and melonball shots and high on beating the Red Sox. 
Oh boy, it makes a whistling sound and then a small pop the end. If that’s your idea of excitement, then I bet Seven Minutes in Heaven is the perfect sex game for you. If you catch my drift. Anyhow, I remember thinking that it probably wasn’t a good idea for these kids to be lighting off fireworks so close to a gas station. Probably a really bad idea considering it looked like they were actually aiming the bottle rockets toward the pumps. I started to get nervous. What if one hit a pump? Would it blow up? Would I die right there in a ball of flames, screaming for help while realizing that my imminent death would mean that every subsequent Fourth of July after this would be ruined for my parents? I pulled myself together. Sat up straight. Watched the little numbers on the gas pump turn. Come on, fill up already, let’s get out of here. And then: A whistling in my ear. Deafening, like a jet plane was landing in my head. A pop. A sudden burst of pain. What the fuck? What. The. Fuck?? Pain. Pain. Pain. I’m deaf and in agony. My chest. My chest is on fire, I think. Let me tell you, nothing sobers you up quicker than the idea that someone just blew a hole open in your chest. Was I shot? Dying? I looked down and saw red. Red all over. My shirt was red and my chest was in pain and...holy fuck. I was hit with a bottle rocket? At first I thought I was bleeding out but quickly realized that the red was dye from the rocket. The pain? That was real. I could feel my shirt starting to stick to the burn underneath it. Shit. That hurt. I guess I had screamed when the rocket hit, but I didn’t hear it because of the whistling in my ear. My cousin was at my car window and the gas station attendant had come over. I was clutching my chest and hyperventilating and at first my cousin thought I was having a heart attack. The shirt I was wearing was a V-neck and I slowly pulled the material to one side and pointed to what I was sure was a gaping in hole im my chest. My cousin gasped. The gas station guy said “Ewww.” Nice. Well, it wasn’t a hole, but it was a pretty intense burn. I was shaking and in pain and the guy said he would run across the street to the firehouse and send an ambulance over. No. No. No. No ambulance. Fuck that. 
That or Natural Ice. And Natties hurt in the morning. Plus you could get a twelve pack of Pabst for 4.99. Hey dude. That was cool. Sure Natural Ice was cheaper, but man, that stuff hurt. 
Shatter of glass and plastic and the dreams of Archie Bunker and Alan Alda all went up in one amazing display of destruction. This was going to be good.
A piccolo pete hit me right in the eye. Exploded. Shit everywhere. I couldn't see. Dragged inside by three girls who were holding my hands back to keep me from rubbing the burned paper and ash deeper in my eye. Thrown in the shower and held down by a bunch of girls. Which is really kinda cool if you think about. Drunk off my ass, half naked being washed by a bunch of girls. That's like some really cool fantasy. Except for the eye burning part. That kinda sucked.
Yes, I grew up in bars. No, it wasn't as cool as you would like to think. Kinda like someone who wants to get backstage at a show. Trying so hard, then seeing what it is. The look of disappointment on their face as we packed in a sandwich from some cheap deli. Bars aren't that great of a place to come up in. So you learn to take what you can get.
Cars would come up beside you, spikes on their wheels. Trying to ram you. You couldn't shoot behind you. You had to drive. Drop oil or smoke. Nothing could be better then this. Nothing.
This was the simplest looking game. Like Pac-Man, but with a car, right?* How hard could it be. Well, you have to take the extenuating circumstance into consideration here. I played this game in a club. Rumbottoms, I think. So you take this simple little maze/car game and throw in a few stiff drinks and some crappy Doors cover band playing in the background to distract you and, well, it wasn’t all that simple of a game.
Simple as the doofus flipping his quarter around behind me who doesn’t get the hint that I’m not leaving this game. So many levels, so few Doors songs left. One more shot. One more encore. Yea, a cover band in a shitty bar is doing an encore. I’ve got one more quarter. Friends gather around the machine. They want to go home. Jim Morrison Jr. is butchering Crystal Ship. Ok, keep your cool. Stop banging into the god damn walls. What the hell is wrong with this car? Is it retarded or is it just me? Move, car, move! Red guy! Red guy! HAHAH I AM BLOWING SMOKE OUT MY ASS! I GOT YOU FUCKER!! Yea. I got this car going. This little bastard is a mean machine once you’ve got enough kamikaze shots inside you to get your adrenaline going. This is the only car of its kind where you need to drink in order to drive it. Drop those smoke bombs! We’re on a mission from God! We’re gonna clear those flags and move on to the next round!
But anyways, Michele gave me the go ahead today to pick anything I wanted to write on. Usually she has a say in this, but she wanted me to pick one all alone. One topic. Hell. I just woke up. Being the meek little turtle I am looking around my table for an idea. Milk! Cheese! Milk and Cheese!!
Milk would just take a baseball bat to their heads and see what they were thinking when they asked that question.
Cheese. You know Laughing Cow cheese? This guy is the opposite. He’s a humanized wedge of hate, anger and violence. He’s always got this shit eating grin on his face, it’s fixated there like a mask of white death, all gleaming teeth and... well, its not really so much a grin. It’s more like the kind of smile a serial killer would wear. I’m thinking the guy from American Psycho. All smiles as he bears down on you with a machete. That kind of smile. Teeth clenched hard with built up rage. Cheese rage. Do you know what Cheese rage is like? No, neither do I. But I imagine it’s not something I’d want to be on the receiving end of. 
