I have to give credit where credit is due: this kid has a fantastic idea for a Halloween costume. He does not need a double amputee to pull it off, however. Roll behind a Kohl's and look for some discarded mannequin parts in the dumpsters. Piece together a torso and some arms and legs. Pick up some gold spray paint and you have yourself a rudimentary (yet light) C3P0. Imagine the logistics of having a double amputee strapped to your back all night. What happens if you (or the amputee) has to take a shit? Even without legs I am assuming a double amputee weighs 75 pounds (if not more). That is a lot of weight to be huffing around sober let alone with your veins pumping Jack Daniels. What if there is a slut dressed as Slave Leia at the party? Are you prepared for that menage-a-trois?

I think my idea for a Halloween costume is better than what this kid is attempting to pull of, anyway. Me as the "host body" and my infant son strapped to my mid-section as the alien Kuato from the movie Total Recall. I may have to hold out until next year for when the boy is talking so he can quip "Open your mind" upon presentation.

Labels: drinking, geekery, halloween, movies, pop culture, the boy, tomfoolery

After reviewing this list, I would have to say 1984 was hands down the best year for movies. I can quote countless lines of dialogue from memory on most of those films. My dad really let me watch some inappropriate films during my impressionable years. He took me to see Ghostbusters, Gremlins, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (the very first movie rated PG-13) and Police Academy in the theaters. Terminator, Red Dawn, Revenge of the Nerds, Nightmare On Elm Street and Sixteen Candles found their way to me via HBO with my dad's standard caveat, "Don't let your mother know I let you watch this." There was some excellent gratuitous nudity in those films; Police Academy, Purple Rain (Apollonia jumping into Lake Minnetonka), Revenge of the Nerds (full frontal), The Terminator (right before Sarah Connor's roommate gets "terminated") and Sixteen Candles (Caroline in the locker room shower). Sadly, there will probably never be a year of cinema packed full of winners like that again. Unless someone decides to resurrect Steve Guttenberg and Ralph Macchio's careers.

Labels: boobs, chicks, dad, glory days, movies, pop culture

• Ten things we do not understand about humans. I love how pubic hair made the list and I love even more that some scientist has studied pubic hair back to prehistory. For the record: we do not need explanations for why women prefer to go hairless.
  
• With the recent retirement of NHL star Jeremy Roenick, Greg Wyshynski compiled a list of his top ten pop culture moments on Yahoo! Sports. Of course the mention of him in the movie Swingers was high on the list (#2). In reference to Roenick being a video game hall of famer I could not agree more. He was without a doubt the most dominant players on NHL '94. I averaged a hat trick with him each time I played as the Blackhawks. Note to my wife: with my birthday impending I urge you to make this happen.
• The thirty five worst celebrity tattoos. Fred Durst: thank you for confirming you are the biggest douchebag in a group douchebags. And Reggie Miller? Seriously?
  

Labels: geekery, hockey, movies, music, pop culture, science, sports, tattoos, vajayjay

My love for the Terminator franchise began in 1985 when my dad let me stay up late with him and watch the James Cameron joint on HBO. The movie had everything a ten year-old boy could want; violence, cyborgs, sex and boobs! I was hooked. In 1991, early CGI technology, a ripped Linda Hamilton and a Guns N' Roses-laden soundtrack made for a sequel that was much better than the original. When T3: Rise Against The Machines came out, I took my wife on our first date to watch it in the theater (I am a hopeless romantic). I thought I would have to keep her informed with back story through out the film, but she quickly interrupted me mid-Skynet dissertation with, "I know what Skynet is. Please shut up," and thereby proved her worthiness as a mate (this date was the very reason I engraved 'NO FATE' on the inner-band of my wedding ring in reference to Linda Hamilton's bowie knife table-carving in T2). I even went so far as to tune into the first full season of the Sarah Connor Chronicles only to tune out once Brian Austin Green joined the cast (thanks to long-time reader of the MB, Bryan Candee, who pointed out that Brian Austin Green's initials are BAG for a reason). Sadly, the television series has resorted to this for viewership. Summer Glau has a nice little frame, but her eyes are so far apart she looks like a cutthroat trout. Cutthroat trout are delicious when sauteed in butter, but are not sexually arousing. I can only hope T4: Salvation with Christian Bale will renew my faith in the franchise. At least they cast Christian Bale. He alone will get my wife out to the theater with me. She would watch that guy read the paper.

Labels: dad, movies, pop culture, wife

Wil: You ever want to just generally fuck yourself up? Watch CNN World for two hours. The human race is not long for this planet.
Me: Agreed. Hopefully my unborn child will get something out of it all before it blows up.
Wil: I am kind of counting on him/her to fix it all, actually. Is that not going to happen?
Me: If he/she takes after the wife, yes. After me? We are doomed.
Wil: Your spawn has been spoken of in countless Nostradamus prophecies. "And she who kicketh ass in softball shall breed with he who has odd hair of the face, and together the savior is born."
Me: Wow. Thanks? Let us hope said spawn makes the animals go bonkers at the zoo ala The Omen. The original with Gregory Peck. Not that bag of dicks remake with Julia Styles.
Wil: Well played, sir. Going to go get some dinner here in Barcelona. If I can find a place with an early bird special at 8:30 PM, that is. The Spaniards do not like to sleep.
Me: Save for the daily siesta?
Wil: Right. Adios.

Labels: babies, death, im convos, movies, pop culture, wife, wil

I have heard that Mickey Rourke's portrayal of Randy "The Ram" Robinson in the Wrestler was incredible but not enough to net him a best actor Oscar (Sean Penn won it last night for his performance in Milk). I am guessing his Spirit Award acceptance speech had something to do with it. Wow. Mickey Rourke may be my new hero. He sort of reminds me of myself after a half bottle of bourbon; rude, obnoxious and dropping f-bombs as if he were cleaning a latrine on an aircraft carrier. My favorite parts of his speech are his references to "banging chicks in the ass" and repeatedly calling Marisa Tomei "Melissa."

Labels: movies, pop culture

This past weekend the wife and I celebrated our final Valentine's Day sans children. Next year, we will be up to our elbows in shitty diapers, crying babies and "dress-up" clothes covered in baby vomit (or so I am told). We were told by many to savor our final Valentine's Day out which we semi-scoffed at because we have never really been "Valentine's Day people." I am of the opinion that greeting card companies have inflated Valentine's Day's importance and think overpriced flowers, chocolates and/or stuffed trinkets sent to a lover are fleeting (if not ridiculous). I tend to buy the wife flowers on a semi-frequent basis and remind her I love her everyday and she, in turn, keeps me happy by accepting whatever career path I may be on that particular week and consistently makes me cookies, banana bread and blueberry muffins. So when Valentine's Day rolls around, we tend to do what we did this past Saturday; grab a steak early in the afternoon with the blue-hairs and catch a matinee at the local movie theater. Nothing says "I love you" like Clint Eastwood slinging some racism ala the late Grandpa Broz.

Labels: babies, family, movies, pop culture, valentines day, wife

• My pregnant wife has not taken her crazy hormonal levels out on me. Yet.
• My pregnant wife and unborn child are in good health.
• The 20 stupidest GI Joe vehicles ever.
  
• I am living the pants-free dream again and no longer working in Design Purgatory.
• My lower back is no longer destroyed.
• Learning about this before the wife dragged me to see Twilight tonight (yes, the crowd was rife with loser-tastic Emo kids. And for the love of God, Edward, just turn Bella into a vampire).
  
• Rachel Ray and Ann Coulter with be silenced through the month of December.

Labels: babies, career, health, injury, movies, pants-free, pop culture, thanksgiving, wife

DC Comics has decided to end Bruce Wayne's run as Batman. I know killing off an iconic character got geeks and lukewarm comic fans alike to buy your graphic novel last time, DC Comics, but this is reeking of desperation. Take a page from Marvel Comics playbook and ditch marketing your printed books altogether and instead throw all your capital towards mediocre movies about second-tier characters. Another Batman movie has got to be better than Ghost Rider or Daredevil, right?

Labels: comics, death, geekery, movies, pop culture

• Fetal Bites: America's number one fetus cookie cutter. Upon purchase I foresee Scottish Shortbread fetus cookies in my future.
  
• A giant pregnant anaconda is slain. Seeing all those dead anaconda babies strewn about gave me a Temple of Doom vibe as opposed to a JLo/Ice Cube vibe.
• A preview of Steven Colbert's "Another Christmas Song." Colbert has a decent voice and I am guessing the album will kitschy and mildly entertaining ranking somewhere between Mr. Hankey's Christmas Classics and The Star Wars Christmas Album (the latter of which I owned on vinyl in my youth).
  

Labels: america, babies, dead babies, food, geekery, link goodness, movies, music, nostalgia, pop culture, wife, xmas

Friday. The wife and I attend a homemade rib bonanza at Team Muff's house where we drain shitty Mexican beer and play a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit 90s Edition. Proof that we have all turned into our parents: we began questioning the "correctness" of card answers and commenting on how staying up until 11:30 seemed "late."

Saturday. The wife and I attend a barbecue at DJs which we learn upon walking into his house is actually his birthday party. The wife gets angry at me for not knowing it was his birthday (even though it was on the Evite) and I explain to her that knowing when your guy friends birthday is is totally gay, and if I bought a gift for him we would have to move in together and begin re-decorating his house in the finest tapestries and velvets. I down a homemade chili beer that I regret four hours later, eat some swine and watch some UFC fighting. The wife and I decided to duck out early to get some sleep. When we arrive back at home, Team Hofkamp stops over with a twelve pack of shitty Mexican beer and cigarettes. We hang out in our backyard for an hour until my neighbor invites us over the fence to share in his raging backyard chimenea fire and more shitty Mexican beers and cigarettes. Four hours and eight beers later, we go to bed.

Sunday. The wife and I walk over to the movie multiplex to catch the new Indiana Jones joint. On the way, we stop to view the recently dedicated (but unfinished) Armed Forces Tribute Garden. We grab a burger and some Lumpy Dogs at the Rock Bottom Brewery before watching yet another abortion written by George Lucas. Why do you hate me George Lucas? Aliens and UFOs? Shia LaBeouf as some sort of 1950s hood with a Pompadour and switchblade swinging on vines with monkeys? Next thing you know, you will be telling me that the force is some kind of blood disorder. Oh. Right.

Monday. The wife, myself and 52,000 other people run the Bolder Boulder under the cover of cool mist and fog. My back (almost fully healed from the bulged disc) feels great and I finish in just over an hour. We retire to the homestead for a much needed shower and nap. Later we attend two more Memorial Day barbecues that feel like autumn barbecues due to the inclement weather. I play ping pong. I play foosball. I play 3-square with a beer in my hand. I go to sleep wishing I celebrated three day weekends more often.

Labels: chili dog, dj, drinking, family, food, gluttony, health, kaye, l-i-v-i-n, movies, pop culture, the greens, weekend that was, wife

I was saddened to learn today that Patrick Swayze has pancreatic cancer and may not have much time left. Damn. Some of my favorite films include the be-mulleted Mr. Swayze. Whether he was waging a guerrilla war versus the Soviets in Red Dawn, kicking some drunk redneck ass in Road House, robbing banks and surfing the edge in Point Break or pulling Baby out of her corner in Dirty Dancing, Patrick Swayze taught a generation American boys how to be men. So, in order to honor his struggle to beat cancer, I have created some Save Swayze gear. Fuck you, Patrick Swayze's pancreatic cancer.

Labels: disease, movies, pop culture

• The man who quipped "The name is Dalton..." after his set/bar fight at the Double Deuce is no more. Godspeed, Mr. Healey. I thought you would be bigger.
• Bacon cups. I may have the wife whip me up some bacon cups so I can pack them full of bacon bits and have a heart attack upon consumption.
  
• A photo essay about Uncle Dirty (NSFW). Uncle Dirty has a hog, friends. Enjoy the thong photo (near the bottom) which displays Uncle Dirty's skid marks are welcome.

Labels: bacon, death, link goodness, movies, perversion, pop culture, wife

Highlights from the Eugene/Coastal Oregon family vacation (click here for some hot Flickr action):

• Number of relatives houses we crashed at that had wireless internet but not cable television: 1.
• A movie that is not fun for the entire family: I Am Legend.
• A movie that is not good in any way, shape or form: The Man From Earth.
• Times the phrase "I slept like the baby Jesus" was uttered: 4.
• How many trips were made to Autzen Stadium to procure gifts: 4.
• How many trips made to Autzen Stadium were to take back items bought by hasty husbands who purchased items with no thought of sizes/people in mind: 2.
• Times the assumed identity "Grayson Buttdorf" was used to sign into the Oregon Coastal Parks and Recreation gray whale watching sheet: 1.
• How many variations of the assumed identity "Grayson Buttdorf" were mulled over numerous Alaskan Ales and one annoyed 18 year-old misquoted cousin: 5.
• Beer, in ounces, that was consumed on the front deck of a the Heceta Head Lighthouse bed and breakfast in one evening: 184.
• A roaring ocean, a good buzz, a comfortable bed and a warm room gave me the best night of sleep in recent memory.
• A short, slanted ceiling, high-backed bathtub and hand-held shower head gave me the most uncomfortable bathing experience in recent memory.
• How many gravely-voiced suspected serial killers ate with us during our "seven-course breakfast": 1.
• Lastly, props to my brother-in-law drove who our rented mini-van like Al Cowlings across Northwest Oregon in order to get us to our flight at PDX with minutes to spare.

Labels: bro-in-law, family, movies, travels, wife

Now added to the list of watchables that woo me to sleep other than professional golf: Ghost Rider. I put this on our Netflix queue as I was looking for something to counter-balance the fucked-upedness of Alpha Dog*. I attempted to watch this unreadable comic made into an unwatchable movie twice over the weekend and fell sound asleep both times. My wife made it through the second viewing only to proclaim upon me regaining consciousness, "Wow. That really sucked." Eva Mendes is a black hole of talent; aside from her willingness to show full frontal nudity, no other redeemable qualities can escape from her gravitational field.

* I treat our Netflix queue as if it were a mix tape I was giving to a junior high school girlfriend. Just like I would not put Kix's "Don't Close Your Eyes" and Every Mother Nightmare's "Love Can Make You Blind" back-to-back, nor would I arrange for Requiem For A Dream and Wonderland to be in the same mail drop.

Labels: movies, sleep

One of my all time favorite comics is Archie because it is pure cliche, white bread Americana. I enjoy the simple artwork, the light-hearted story lines and the homoerotic undertones. With each issue I rooted for Archie to either come out of the closet to Jughead or grow some testicles and score with Betty or Veronica (or both). I definitely think Archie could have been the meat of a Riverdale love sandwich if he played his cards right (at the very least he could have pitted Betty and Veronica against one another for more entertaining story lines. I am talking about hot oil bikini wrestling matches, foxy boxing, pudding throwing and latex fashion shows). I even watched the made for TV movie Archie: To Riverdale and Back Again starring Lauren Holly a few years ago. It was terrific in its awfulness and its portrayal of Veronica as a turbo slut vying for Archie's affections by showing up at his house in nothing but a trench coat and lingerie was awesome. Artist Steven Butler is giving the gang from Riverdale a facelift in 2007. I may have to pick up a Double Digest at the grocery store and get reacquainted with the kids when I am laying some foam ropes in the New Year.

Labels: comics, geekery, movies, poop, pop culture

• Wikipedia for Halloween.
• Halloween costumes for sluts. My personal favorites: Teacher's Pet, Alice In Wonderland, Whore Ballerina, Herpes Care Bear and Bondage Whip Cat Woman. Disturbing items: Homo-erotic Roman Warrior costume and the sexy plus-size costume section (note the complete lack of realistic models that could adorn the "three-man tent tarp" size). A note to sexy costume manufacturers everywhere: Your plus-size section should consist of one costume; a king-size white sheet with eye holes cut out labeled "Sexy Ghost That Eats Too Much."
• Anna Nicole Smith is facing the possibility of exhuming her son's dead body.
• Wikipedia for Samhain (the festival, not the bag of assholes band Glenn Danzig fronted after the dissolution of the Misfits).
• Outsiders soliloquy performed by a talentless hack for the now dead Stanley Kubrick.

Labels: death, halloween, link goodness, movies, music, pop culture, whores

Today I reached the "30 Resumes Sent" benchmark and I plan on celebrating by taking a nap immediately after posting this. Thus far I have heard back on six resumes and have a phone interview this afternoon with a company who's identity I will protect until I either get a job offer or am denied employment based on my affinity for the movie Road House. (On a related note, I ordered Road House 2: Last Call through Netflix and it will be arriving via mail tomorrow. I am hoping it has much of the same goodness as the first installment: mullets, fighting, boobs and a human throat being violently torn out with somebody's bare hands. I will be sure to keep you posted). All things considered, a 20% contact rate on my resumes is not bad. Granted, 80% of the 20% are "I just want to be friends" rejection emails (which hearkens me back to my freshman year of college) but that is not important right now. What is important is that I do not have to shave for a phone interview. The time is nigh for an unemployment nap. Have fun at work, suckers.

Labels: boobs, career, fighting, movies, pop culture, unemployment

The future wife and I spent the weekend knee deep in errands for the impending nuptials, so we decided to take it easy on Saturday night, throw back some Fat Tires and watch Peter Jackson's King Kong. At first I was smitten with the film, enjoying the mindless action, the undertones of bestiality and watching Naomi Watts scream and run about in her moist camisole. The movie than degenerated into a never ending orgy of agony as the final hour dragged on like an introductory statistics course and I found myself wishing Kong would plummet to his death from the Empire State Building like the stupid primate he was. Thanks for taking the mantle from Spike Lee on not knowing how to end a film, Peter Jackson. The future wife tried to keep steam from blowing out of my ears by cheering for Naomi's naked breasts to make an appearance for the sake of my sanity. Alas, it was not to be. I reminded her that epic blockbusters historically never show the naughty bits and that if I wanted to see Naomi's exposed fun bags I would watch 21 Grams. Unfortunately one has to endure a nude Sean Penn, a soul crushing plot and a depressing sex scene for the pay off, but I think it is worth it. At least it is not Monster's Ball. Or Requiem For A Dream.

Labels: boobs, engagement, movies, pop culture, wife

Video footage of a ten year old girl firing a 50 caliber machine gun (at least it looks like a 50 caliber machine gun in the grainy video). I wish I could say seeing a child with firearms sickens me; instead, it makes me jealous. Notice the way her aim resembles that of one of John Rambo's enemies.

Labels: guns, movies, pop culture, tomfoolery

One morning after a hard night of drinking, the wife and I had the misfortune of being sucked into Drumline on the digital cable. The film is about a band director who recruits an inner-city drummer from the mean streets of Harlem to play skins at a fabricated, big name southern university called U of the South or Big South University or something. After spending half of the movie being "benched" (does anyone know the proper term for being pulled from the starting lineup of a marching band?) for a poor attitude, our protagonist Devon helps Big Southern University of the South win the coveted national band championship during the climatic drum-off. I longed for the movie to end with senseless violence; like Devon's boys from Harlem clashing with a local street gang in the stadium and a gun battle ensues whereby Old Big University of the South's band is wiped out in the crossfire and Devon sits on the field clutching his bloody entrails falling from a mortal wound in his stomach screaming "WHY? WHY?" Alas, the film did not even end with a good old fashioned rumble and everybody lived.

Labels: hangover, movies, pop culture, wife

Oliver Stone is making a movie about the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center. Stone on the project:

It is a work of collective passion, a serious meditation on what happened and carries within a compassion that heals.

Read: There will be a naked Indian and a shitty Doors song somewhere in the film.

Labels: 9/11, movies, pop culture

My weekend was filled with disturbing programming flashing across the television. On Friday night Monica brought over her fella and some Chinese food over and we all watched Monster. I thought Charlize Theron engaging in lesbianism would soften the disturbing nature of the film (even if said lesbianism was with Christina Ricci who is hot if you are into elf sluts with big foreheads) but I was dead wrong. I have three words for you: tire iron sodomy. (I was guilty of this hot-chick-doing-an-uncharacteristic-sex-act fallacy during Requiem For A Dream, too. I heard Jennifer Connelly took a double ended dildo up the chute and that sounded like something I would enjoy watching. First, I had to endure a smack addict's arm amputation (his limb became black and gangrenous due to his love of the vein candy) and an old woman being committed to a mental health facility for her eating disorder and addiction to diet pills. When the scene finally arrived, it was more disturbing than hot).

Saturday morning I made myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and turned on the Olympics in the hopes of catching some Women's Beach Volleyball (Holly McPeak. Yummy). Instead I get the a broadcast of the Gymnastics Trampoline. The competition goes as such: an athlete (use the term athlete loosely) does tricks on a trampoline for an Olympic medal. We need an international competition forum for this? There was a kid named Jimmy in my neighborhood who would have dominated this event in the early eighties. That fucking kid was a wild man on the trampoline. His signature move was jumping off the roof and going into a double flip. I was waiting for a tandem Gymnastics Trampoline event when two competitors had a seat war or played a game of crack the egg. You know this event is not taken seriously when commentators had this exchange:

Announcer #1: Oh! That miscue on the back flip there is going to cost him.
Announcer #2: Yes. What kind of experience do you have with this event?
Announcer #1: Well, I have been jumping on trampolines since I was eight years old.

Labels: a-town, childhood, lesbians, mons, movies, pop culture, sports, weekend that was, wife

A link to a great email exchange that began with Team USA getting beat like they stole something in Olympic basketball by Puerto Rico (it is worth the read, trust me). For the record: I feel that we as a society should root for the Predator in the Alien vs. Predator conflict not because it seems more human-like but because the Predator is what we as a society should hope to one day become. The Predator, like an onion or a Photoshop document, has many layers; it is a skilled hunter, an assassin, intelligent and is a perfect example of the philosophical superman Nietzsche wrote about. The Predator is not a mindless drone but a free thinking individual that learns from its mistakes and is wise enough to outwit its enemy (like not walking into Dutch's crude jungle trap, for example). The Alien seems singular in its focus to destroy whatever creature/culture crosses its path and less concerned with educating itself on its environments, its enemies and most importantly, itself. The Alien mirrors contemporary society; mindless, submissive and narrow minded, whereas the Predator symbolizes enlightenment. Also consider that a woman with a bad perm adorned in cotton panties killed the Alien and the Predator wiped out an entire platoon of Special Forces soldiers skilled in the arts of guerrilla warfare before a strategically placed tree stump took it down.

Labels: movies, pop culture, sports

When I was in third grade, I wanted to be Tron. I wanted the neon suit, the electric throwing disc, the light cycle and the heroic feeling of killing Sark and shutting down the MCP. My dream nearly manifested itself at the local skating rink in 1984 when the Tron arcade game appeared one glorious afternoon. I fed quarters into that game like an elderly, chain smoking Asian woman in front of a progressive slot machine. Soon the initials S-E-X peppered the high score list and I became master of the multi-leveled tapestry that was arcade Tron. My Tron obsession ended in 1986 when I discovered girls and thereby avoided being a full-blown adult Tron geek and posting images of myself on the internet in a green unitard with a beer gut and prominent pressed ham.

Labels: geekery, movies, pop culture

Jake: Mysterious noises in the street.
Me: The street is evil!
Jake: GEEEEEEET OOOOOUUUUUUUUT!
Me: RUN! FOR FUCK'S SAKE, RUN!
Jake: Next thing you know corpses will be bubbling up out of the swimming pool.
Me: Right. Then Coach Hayden Fox will struggle with ghosts in an epic battle to save his family.
Jake: Poor Coach. He battled and fought and all he wanted was a nice house for his family. Then the damned television sucked up his little girl.
Me: Unfortunately said nice house was built atop an Indian burial ground.
Jake: Coach did not know. It was not Coach's fault.
Me: I know, but Coach should have reevaluated the situation when the walls started bleeding.
Jake: True. But he was already missing his little girl at that point. Once she is inside the television, you are committed.
Me: I say fuck the kid, cut your losses and move onto a nicer suburban street named after trees.
Jake: What? Like Elm Street? Fuck that!

Labels: im convos, jake, movies, pop culture

Kaye: Do you remember that robot's name from Short Circuit?
Me: Johnny 5.
Kaye: That is right. Johnny 5 is alive!
Me: I hate that motherfucker.
Kaye: I hate that fucking dumb ass movie. Johnny 5 was all rolling around like he was a tank or some shit. Where are your fucking legs Johnny 5?
Me: I wanted to take a crowbar to his stupid ass. Or disconnect his shit and roll him down a hill. Fuck you, Johnny 5.
Kaye: Johnny 5 is not alive.

Labels: im convos, kaye, movies, pop culture

Religious moviegoers in Georgia were horrified to find their ticket stubs to The Passion of the Christ imprinted with the number of the beast. The manager of the theater claims it was a computer glitch and not the work of Satan.

First, in the book of Revelation the number 666 was said to refer to the Antichrist in which many modern Christians misinterpret as the coming of Lucifer to Earth in human form during Armageddon. Most biblical scholars concur that the number actually refers to the Roman emperor Nero, whose name equals the numerical value of 666 in Hebrew. Nero was quite a bastard to first century Christians and he enjoyed torturing them by crucifixion, setting them ablaze and feeding them to lions. John, the author of the book of Revelation, understood the wrath of the Emperors firsthand as he was poisoned, beaten, dipped in boiling oil and eventually exiled to the island of Patmos just for being down with the Lord. Therefore, the number of the beast does not refer to the Prince of Darkness himself but to the oppressive leaders of first century Rome.

Second, I am of the opinion that the greatest song Iron Maiden ever recorded was The Number of the Beast.

Labels: evil, history, movies, music, pop culture, religion

My lady and I went to see Miracle yesterday. Movies rarely move me, as most of them have about as much substance as a steaming pile of elephant dung and before yesterday I could count only three instances in twenty eight years of popular cinema viewing where I was touched emotionally:

1. The Empire Strikes Back. After battling Darth Vader in an epic Jedi light saber duel, Luke Skywalker sans hand scales the flimsy scaffolding of a weather station high atop Bespin while Vader questions the brash youngster (equipped only with his bad haircut now) about his family tree. Luke learns that Vader is his father. Ridden with denial and hurt, Skywalker jumps from the scaffolding into the abyss of the gas colony.
   
2. Planet of the Apes (Original). Chuck Heston is riding down the beach on his trusty stead with hot piece of mute ass Nova clinging to his back after the apes have freed him. He comes upon an ancient sculpture and stops. He dismounts the horse, falls to his knees, grasps at the wet sand, looks up to the sky and damns all of humanity. Camera pans out to reveal the ancient sculpture is in fact the Statue of Liberty.
3. Deer Hunter. Robert DeNiro, Christopher Walken and a game of Russian roulette. "Didi Mow!"
   

Now Miracle has officially made my list. After standing on his head for the 1980 Olympic medal round and defeating a Soviet team that had won the gold medal for twenty straight years, net minder Jimmy Craig skates to center ice looking for his father in the crowd after he wins the gold medal. "Where is my Dad?!" "He is right there, Jimmy." Fuckin' A.

Labels: hockey, movies, pop culture, wife

Last night, I went to see the much-hyped Matrix Reloaded. I was entertained, yet disappointed. The action was, as expected, insane but the story left little to be desired. A suggestion to any director who chooses to put Keanu Reeves in a starring role: the less he speaks, the better the film will be. The story jumped from Christian Trinity references, to different schools of philosophical thought, to Jesus metaphors, to fucked-up tribal raves with gratuitous nipple shots and finally, a moment where we learn the Architect of the Matrix is a cross between Sigmund Freud and Colonel Sanders. I do not find Carrie-Ann Moss even remotely attractive even though she is adorned in black latex and she drives the fuck out of a motorcycle through out the entire film. Monica Bellucci and her pillows of boob-a-licious naughty goodness on the other hand, I would pay just to watch read the newspaper.

Labels: boobs, movies, pop culture

Friday. She Who Will Not Be Named and I ordered some pizza and played Dynasty Warriors 4 until the wee hours of the morning.

Saturday. I watch the Colorado Avalanche beat the Minnesota Wild and played badminton in the park (note to cousin Jenny in Minnesota: after the Avs beat your boys like rented mules, I expect my free case of Pete's Wicked Ale and bottle of Bushmills to be delivered in person).

Sunday. I played in a tiring, demanding hockey game (we only had six skaters) and upon Jake's recommendation, watched The Salton Sea. It was an excellent film, and its good to see Val Kilmer back in his I am a bad ass and can play in diverse roles like Jim Morrison and Doc Holliday form as opposed to his I am just doing this for the money by starring in the Saint and Red Planet form.

Labels: colorado, drinking, geekery, hockey, jake, movies, pop culture, she who, weekend that was

Jake: The Gremlins kid was caught stealing a Deep Purple CD?
Me: I know. That makes it even more tragic.
Jake: How lame can one person be?
Me: Very lame. He was on the downhill slide after Gremlins 2, really.
Jake: Well yeah. But you figure that is as bad as it should get.
Me: True. You know you have hit rock bottom when you are lifting classic rock CDs from Tower Records.
Jake: There is always meth, though. He could still fall further.
Me: It is either meth or Hollywood Squares.
Jake: Or huffing silver spray paint and getting picked up on Cops with no pants and stained undies.
Me: Whippits?
Jake: Whippits are amateur hour, Matty. It is all about the metallics. Nothing kills brain cells faster. Even gasoline.
Me: Well that is plain silly. Everyone loves a good a bag of gas.

Labels: drugs, im convos, jake, movies, pop culture