31 Days of Halloween: What the shit happened?

No, I’m not bad at blogging, I’m just really good at life, so I’m not going give you excuses for skipping a few days of personal writing. Besides, there’s only fifty or so people reading this (NOT being on Facebook cuts down on my overall traffic, but I can live with it). Obviously, nobody’s clamoring to read this shit, so as with everything, blogging is just a way for me to mentally limber up before the the day gets started.

I had one of the best weekend’s I’ve had in awhile (except for a hunger related tantrum in which I turned into a raving six-year-old AKA my spirit animal), and it did include some horror movies.

Here’s a recap of the flicks and the weekend.

The Cell

I re-watched this one Thursday night. I think this flick is insanely underrated. The three leads bring their A game (including Vince Vaughn, who’s a solid dramatic actor, but who we all still shit on for playing Norman Bates. Let’s knock the shit off with that. It’s an iconic role and what actor wouldn’t want to tackle it? Unfortunately, it poisoned Vaughn’s career.) despite it being a formulaic serial killer script. Definitely worth a watch for the performances and stunning visuals.

The Nun

I took the oldest to this latest entry in The Conjuring series. The series is kind of like the chain Mexican restaurant of horror franchises: you know what to expect, it’s decent enough, and occasionally it catches you off guard with something tasty. The Nun isn’t looking to re-invent the wheel, but it was fun and had a decent script. Besides, I went to spent time with the Midget; it’s kind of strange watching her become a teenager. She’s still the same Sadie, but she’s not … She’s becoming Sadie. Parents of teenagers will know what I’m talking about.

Waitress

Mrs. Rawson purchased season tickets to the ASU Gamage and Waitress was the first show to hit town. No, it was far from a horror movie (albeit the story behind its road to becoming a musical was most definitely horrible). It was, however, a kick ass musical.

I know, kick-ass isn’t exactly how you would describe musical theater, but it was. And if you think it’s weird I like musicals, you can go fuck yourself, because this shit’s all kinds of fun.

Petting Pooches

We rounded out the weekend visiting dog rescues. This is probably one of my favorite activities largely because me and “pit bulls” are like pees and carrots, and Phoenix shelters are busting at the seems with terriers of all shapes and sizes.

Remember, folks, adopt, don’t purchase.

The rest of the weekend was pretty much the usual art shenanigans: writing, drawing, reading, listening to music, and hanging with the girls. Pretty much a perfect long weekend.

And, yeah, I’ll be keeping up with 31 days of Halloween, I might just have to extend it out for a couple months.


Morning Soundtrack: Lil Wayne, The Carter collection.

31 Days of Halloween, Day#2: Children of Men

I love the film Children Of Men.

It’s depressing as shit, your typical post-Apocalyptic world, lots of grey skies and dour faced people waiting for a chance to top themselves. What makes COM a bit more interesting is the way the world—Well, humanity, Earth is just fine—is ending: Humanity loses the ability to procreate. What makes this particular version of the END is how believable it is. The story isn’t like the hopeful apocalypses of the dozens of YA novels that have depicted our collective doom with video game logic over the past fifteen years.

COM is definite.

There is no future and it wasn’t human designed; there is no evil despot manipulating humanity, shaping us to their will. Even if their will is a decaying, diseased thing that should have died decades ago. Our time is simply up; it’s not hard hitting and dramatic; it’s a slow end, a fizzle where we get to experience each agonizing second over a span of generations.

The movie ends with the latest version of a (By the way, if you haven’t seen the movie by now, you deserve to have it ruined for you) “happy” ending. The hero dies, but the pregnant (The first pregnant girl in a generation) girl he was protecting gets away and into the hands of a small band of moderate intellectuals who are in no way going to exploit the girl or the child in her belly.
In the novel—aren’t all decent flicks based off novels—the ending is far bleaker, because you know for a fact that the “moderate” intellectuals are going to do everything in their power to exploit this teenage girl and her unborn baby. It should go without saying that I like the novels ending far more. It’s realistic. It illustrates the point that a person is intelligent and reasonable. But people are less than animals and easily manipulated, and the manipulators always have an agenda.

Believe it or not, the endings of Children of Men isn’t what I’m writing about.

What I’m writing about are the performances, two in particular.

Clive Owen and that old whore Michael Caine.

And I only want to talk about a single scene they appear in together.

It’s not that I don’t find the film fascinating and worth further examination, I’ll go ahead, move on, and talk about the scene.
First off, this is one of the few scenes in the movie where it’s hinted at that Michael Caine is Clive Owen’s dad. They have a cool relationship. They sit around getting high in the middle of nowhere; everything they’ve ever cared about has been or will be flushed down the universal toilet, and yet here they are, father and son, a quiet love and joy being shared between them, smoking a little home grown dope and lamenting the past.

I don’t want to talk about that, either.

What I want to talk about is the music Michael Caine is dancing to at the end of the scene.

Doesn’t it sound a bit like Death Grips? Here’s the scene if you’ve never watched it.

Now, here’s the point of the last 500 words, other than hopefully turning you onto a cool movie.

At the beginning of my oldest daughter’s summer vacation (Our district is a modified schedule; short summer break, longer fall, winter, and spring breaks. She just started her Fall break on Monday). It was early afternoon; I’d just gotten the baby down for her nap (Which is a rarity unless she isn’t feeling good) and I was in my office working. I work standing, pacing between the desktop and laptop, bouncing around to whatever music’s keeping me motivated—Lately it’s been punk, doom, and weird hip-hop. Death Grips is kind of a combo of Kool Keith, Slayer, and a solid wall of noise that has no right to work as a beat or sample. It all blends together, though. Here’s some Death Grips if you haven’t heard them before.

They’re an acquired taste, along the same lines as Kamasi Washington and Lamb of God, they’re genius, but intense. I keep them to myself, though, Mrs. Rawson and the oldest child would yell at me if I tried to put them on in the car.
By the way, this all about the oldest child.

My darling 12-year-old daughter, who, right now, is composed entirely of smarm, sarcasm, and smelly feet.

Oh, and she’s constantly embarrassed, mostly of me.

I was the coolest when she was a wee lass, not anymore.

Now:

I am not funny.

I am not witty.

I am not even remotely interesting

I am, however, a ripe target for ridicule and scorn.

You’ve gotta love teenagers, or whatever we’re calling 12-year-olds this week.

Anyway, the Big Kid mostly sticks to her room and occasionally pops out to use the john and grab some chips and a coke. She’s a ninja, you barely notice her. But that’s every 12-year-old’s trick, the ability to become invisible to parents. They wonder where the fuck you are all the time and then do nothing but bitch at you the minute you see them. I don’t do it, but Mrs. Rawson was starting to get a little antsy and depressed about the Midget not being as much of a fixture around the house. They have a close relationship, as mothers and daughters should have, and suddenly their nights of TV watching and gossiping about silly shit. Her sudden absence, was overwhelming her emotionally.

I felt for Mrs. Rawson (The big kid and Mom have patched things up since this writing, or at the very least, they’re enjoying one another again.), but I gotta admit, I went through a long silent phase like what Mrs. Rawson went through, the difference is I kind of enjoyed it. Two-year-olds are fucking brutal and full of constant noise. So are 12-year-olds, but only with their friends. I’ll admit it, I liked the quiet. I did not like her ninja abilities, mostly because on the day I was pretending to be Michael Caine from Children of Men and bouncing around to Death Grips.

I turned around, bouncing, banging my head, walking back to my laptop to work on whatever article I was hacking at, and there was the big kid, mouth open, her face red with embarrassment. It was like she’d caught me jerking off instead of dancing. Before I could even say hi, she went bounding off upstairs, her bedroom door slamming behind her. She didn’t talk to me the rest of the day.

And that’s it, not everything has to be a thing, no lessons need to be learned.

Oh, except you should watch Children of Men, it’s scary as shit and perfect for Halloween.

And, I absolutely love the scene with stoned Michael Caine.


Evening Soundtrack: SOB X RBE

12 AM Thoughts

This is one I keep coming back to.

The reason the United States is so violent is because of religious fundamentalism.

You may disagree with me, but ask yourself this (Particularly if you live in a fairly populated area): How long would it take you to walk to your closest church?

Me, three minutes at a leisurely pace.

The second one is ten minutes away.

The third is twenty and considered sacred ground to the sub-sect of Christianity who built it.

Next, take a look at the mass shooters who’ve identified as Christian either publicly or from subsequent writings after the killings. (Please take into account that some of the deadliest shooters were raised in what would be described as “devout” households.)

It’s scary, and I wish more people would watch the end of There Will Be Blood. I find this to be a fine representation of 20th and 21st century religious beliefs.

If you’re Christian, I don’t find you scary or weird, it’s the fact that Americans wear their faith on their sleeves like it’s a badge, or an identifier. Growing up, I was more or less taught you didn’t discuss two things in public (And mind you, my folks broke this rule all the time.): Politics and religion. You kept both at home because neither mattered to strangers, it was your business. I still kind of like the idea of it, now I just have to put it into practice.

31 Days Of Halloween: Day #1 The Fly II

I love Halloween.

Shit, I love this whole time of year, autumn is my jam.

Maybe it’s why I love horror/dark shit so much.

Nah, I just like gross shit, nothing more, nothing less.

Anyway, over the last few years, I’ve been wanting to do a 31 days of Halloween Marathon and write up the movies. So I’ve finally said fuck it and started last night. My first selection was The Fly II staring nobody’s favorite, Eric Stoltz.

Here’s the Studio’s description so I don’t have to write a fucking book report:

“The almost-human son of “Brundlefly” searches for a cure to his mutated genes while being monitored by a nefarious corporation that wishes to continue his father’s experiments.” 

Yeah, that’s it.

You would think with a plot so simple they could really flesh it out, make it real atmospheric and creepy. You know, like Cronenberg’s first film was (Yes, Cronenberg’s The Fly was a remake, but a far superior one). But, nope, no doing. I should have figured it out on my own when I saw the screenplay had been tinkered with by four different writers.

And, yeah, it stars Eric Stoltz AKA Almost Marty McFly.

The Fly II is suck city, skip it.

I’ve got high hopes for tonight’s film. But then again, just about anything is better than The Fly II.


Afternoon Soundtrack: Denzel Curry

Maybe We Had It Coming?

2018 has been America’s Kermit year.

Over the last 9 months (Holy shit, it’s ONLY been 9 months), we’ve had a HUGE hand shoved deep into our collective asses and it’s working us.

It’s weird being apart of a puppet government; seeing the president travel the world working as Putin’s bagman. This can’t all be about Trumpy liking to pee on $10,000 a night prostitutes, right?

Of course it’s not, it’s about money and not wanting to let go of the old ways. It’s a tough one; adversarial economics, oil, coal, advertising revenue, nuclear weapons, the 8 hour work day, it’s all coming to a slow, grinding end, and the last eight months has been a desperate money grab.

I mean, it’s not like we didn’t have this coming. Call it Karma, call it equal/opposite reaction, whatever.

Everybody pays, plain and simple.

What the fuck am I talking about, you ask?

Check out this list of U.S. puppet governments we’ve created in the past 70 years.

Seriously, this is a long time coming.


Morning Soundtrack: Mudhoney

Serious Question?

Serious question: Why do women feel compelled to read this garbage? As far as I can tell, it’s a mixture of somewhat helpful health tips, junk science, and articles meant to make women feel insecure about themselves.

So, actually, a couple of questions:

Why do women read it?

When does this “health & beauty” shit start getting rammed down a woman’s throat?

Is there a male equivalent to this sort of publication?

Drop your answers on Facebook and Twitter.