The Dutch are scum...

My employers have gone and done a silly thing. They decided to send me to Amsterdam next week. That's right, THE Amsterdam. Home of Anne Frank, Heineken beer, legal hookers and high-octane "legal" drugs. Funny thing is, they expect me to work while I'm there. Fortunately, I'm an old hand at functioning whilst under the influence, so the strict spacecakes-and-pilsner diet I'll be on shouldn't cause any serious problems. My flight gets in around noon, so the first order of business after checking in at the hotel will be getting very, very high and touring the Anne Frank house. What better way to experience an artifact of man's inhumanity to man than under the influence? If only I'd been stoned when I went to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC. Maybe the cops wouldn't have had to talk me down from that ledge. Gotta say, though, DC PD has some of the best hostage negotiators I've ever dealt with. Real good sports, and they only beat my ass a little.

But seriously, what are my employers thinking? Sending a manic-depressive alcoholic drug-fiend with a history of poor impulse control and an already shaky hold on reality to Amsterdam and expecting him to behave is like asking Britney Spears to complete a rehab program. It just ain't happening. But at least I'll have a good time pushing my mind beyond the limits of endurance by saturating it with as many conflicting chemicals as I can. To paraphrase Steve McQueen, you gotta push it as hard and as far as you can, every single day. Standing on the brink of total oblivion and spitting over the edge, that's the only way to live.

So feel free to hate on me. Everyone else I've told is, so it's already forgiven. After all, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity knocking, and I'm the sap who gets to answer the door. The only tricky bit will be making sure I get back home in one piece.

Currently listening : Ungodly Amounts of Meat By Slughog Release date: 22 June, 1999

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Coincidence?

Or: America Gets Fat, Stupid, and Heavily Armed.

During the first half of this past week, I discovered an interesting thread running through the news. First, a story from the Associated Press about rising obesity rates in the US. Thirty-one states posted an increase in horrid, unsightly flab, with the remaining 19 states showing no change from previous years. Mississippi holds the title, with one-third of its population unable to see their feet or turn down that fourth helping of deep-fried grits and barbequed pig offal. West Virginia and Alabama follow close behind, proving a point I've been making for years: Everything bad in this country is ten times worse south of the Mason-Dixon. If ol' Abe Lincoln could've seen into the future, he probably would've said, "Well, President of the Confederacy Jefferson Davis, without your cotton and tobacco, trade in the north will suffer. You use slaves to perform all your grueling, back-breaking labor, which in morally inexcusable. But in 150 years or so, the south will be peopled by ignorant, gap-toothed, dull-witted, disgustingly overweight welfare cheats who only exist to make the rest of us look better by comparison. So go right ahead and secede. I'm sure we'll manage."

(I should point out here that my Father's parents are both from the south. They are wonderful, intelligent, tolerant people, full of love and compassion for their fellow man and a desire to improve the world around them. I should also point out that they've lived in New England for the last 50-plus years, because they clearly didn't fit in where they're from.)

The same day the above was reported, another article from the AP told of yet another drop in SAT scores, bringing the national average to a new eight-year low. But is this evidence that America is getting dumber? Not according to the College Board, who believe the decrease is due to "a more diverse pool of students" taking the exam. Of course, by "diverse pool," what they really mean is "Hispanics and blacks." Asians, as we all know, are the ones keeping the scores from totally bottoming out. Clearly, the College Board has no idea what they're talking about. America is, without question, getting dumber. Just spend an afternoon watching MTV, VH1 and the E! Network. It's been scientifically proven that your IQ drops a half-point every two minutes while watching "The Hills," a full point per episode of "Scott Baio is 45... And Single," and a whopping ten points for even thinking about watching "The Girls Next Door." An all-day marathon of "The Simple Life" is the mental equivalent of drinking a bottle of Liquid Plumber. 

So we're fat and stupid. Big deal. We make up for our national shortcomings by packing more heat than any other country in the world. According to the annual Small Arms Survey, there are enough guns in the US to arm 9 out of 10 people. Feels good, doesn't it? Of approximately 875 million small arms (from pistols to semi-automatic rifles) in world-wide circulation, civilians have access to 650 million of them, and of that number, 270 million are in the hands of American citizens. How d'you like that? Over 1/4 of the small arms in the world belong to us. Michael Moore and Rosie O'Donnell can eat a bag of dicks (well, more like two bags each, because one would barely be an appetizer for those fat sacks of freedom-hating shit). Why? Because when the rape trucks come rolling down the street and John Q. Government asks us to step outside while they ransack the house, we can put up a fight. Sure, the jack-boots have better technology and heavier artillery, but so did the British back in 1776, and look how that worked out. Yeah, I know, I sound like a paranoid lunatic who's seen Red Dawn and Invasion USA too many times (which is entirely true), but hey, fuck you. It could happen. And if it does, I know where I'll be: Heading north at 110 per, armed to the teeth and cooking any fool who dares get in my way.

So there we have it. America, land of the fat, home of the dumb. But mess with us and we'll fucking shoot you. Now I must shower, because I haven't bathed all weekend and I smell strongly of beer sweat and crotch-rot. 

Currently listening : Live 1980 By Devo Release date: 30 August, 2005

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The Random Report...

...wherein I discuss amusing things that I've seen, read or heard in the last week (or so).

THIS WEEK IN PHALUSES: There was enough genital mutilation in the news this past week to give the makers of the Saw franchise material for another gross of sequels (pun intended). A performer at this year's Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Daniel Blackner, was hospitalized after accidentally gluing his penis to a vacuum attachment. This unnatural coupling is, as reported by the Associated Foreign Press, the "main part of [Blackner's] act." I can understand this. You always want to leave your audience with a spectacle. Gallagher splatters crowds of white-trash with watermelon detritus, why can't this guy (who performs under the name "Captain Dan the Demon Dwarf") violate household appliances?

Apparently, Captain Dan (who's military record is currently being researched) broke the "special attachment" for the vacuum moments before the, ahem, climax of his performance, and he quickly glued it back together using a powerful industrial epoxy. Problem is, like many adhesives of this nature, it requires a fair amount of time to set fully, in this case twenty minutes. Blackner waited a mere 20 seconds before inserting his own "Demon Dwarf" into the apparatus. Now, I can't even fix the soles of my crusty old Vans without gluing at least two of my fingers together. The thought of getting that damnable stuff near my most delicate of regions is nigh-incomprehensible. "It was the most embarrassing moment of my life when I got wheeled into a packed AE with a vacuum attached to me," Blackner told the AFP. Coming from a guy who hooks vacuums to his junk (in public, no less!) for a living, one can only imagine what such a level of embarrassment would do one of us.

In other wince-inducing news this week, a Russian woman set fire to her ex-husband's penis. The couple had been divorced for three years, but continued to live together due to the high real estate costs in Moscow.  "I was burning like a torch. I don't know what I did to deserve this," the ex-husband told the Tvoi Den newspaper. According to Reuters, at the time of the incident, the victim (whose name was not released to the media) was watching TV and drinking vodka while in the nude, which may have been the problem. If I came home from work to find my roommate bare-ass naked, sprawled out on the couch (which, I might add, we both have to sit on) slamming shots of Orloff and watching Judge Alex, I might be tempted to set fire to his moose-knuckle too. And he's not even my ex! (Well, there was this one time, during a thunderstorm, I got scared, and he and I, well... never mind.) As for the possibility of a full recovery, a spokeswoman for the Moscow police said it was "difficult to predict." I have a prediction: No way in hell. Fire is a powerful elemental force, and flesh is comparatively weak and malleable. The odds of his critter being anything but crispy after this are virtually nil.

That's it for now. Remember, caves are nature's holes.

Currently listening : Sleep Is the Enemy By Danko Jones Release date: 23 May, 2006

1:21 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Time wounds all heels...

First, let me say this: No, I'm not dead, nor am I in jail, and haven't I gone "off the grid." And though I expect all of these things to happen eventually, I have no plans to pursue them at this time. Sure, it's been a while since my last blog entry, but that's only because I don't like you. That, and my internet access has been sporadic at best over the last couple of months, mostly because I'm too lazy and unmotivated to walk my fat ass down to the library and use their computers. So, for the one or two of you who pretend to care, here's a quick update on what I've been up to.

Films: Not making them, of course, that would be too productive. (Well, there was one- more on that later.) But there's been so much good stuff showing up on DVD lately, I haven't had much time for normal human interaction. Not that interacting with me is by any definition "normal," but you know what I mean. Two weeks ago, a classic film from my youth finaly reared its mighty head on DVD. I'm speaking of none other than The Monster Squad. It's the movie that, for me, bridged the gap between Ghostbusters and films like Night of the Living Dead and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. For those who have never seen it, The Monster Squad is basically The Goonies, only with classic monsters (the Wolfman, Dracula, Frankenstien, etc.) instead of gangsters, no future washed-up teen idols (Corey Feldman, I'm looking at you) or hobbits, and much, much better dialogue. I've watched it about 20-30 times in the last two weeks. But I'm not obsessed, honest. 

Facial hair: I've committed myself to growing the biggest, bushiest, most off-putting beard I possibly can. Why? Because I get a kick out of being told I look like a viking, lumberjack, or mountain man. Also, I recently had to remain clean-shaven for over a month due to an acting gig. What a bloody nightmare!  Until this past April, I hadn't seen my bare chin in six years. With any luck, I'll never have to see it again. Not that it's bad looking, mind you, it's just that I hate shaving, and it makes me look so... normal. Icky-poo. Although, I did get more compliments from gay dudes and married women than usual while in my baby-faced state. While I'm on the subject, why is it that gay men and married women find me so appealing, and yet single, attractive women wouldn't notice me if I was nailed to a burning crucifix on their front lawn? Is it the whole "forbidden fruit" thing? And really, what kind of a sad putz would a lady have to be stuck with to see me as a "catch?" I don't know. These are questions for the ages, I suppose.

Got to wrap this up, because I'm boring the hell out of myself. Let's see, what have I been up to? Working, a little acting (a bit part in an indie horror-comedy, some dinner theater, and constantly pretending to be a competent, well-adjusted human being), alienating those who would call me "friend," drinking, drugging, getting out of bed every day (despite by better judgement), and sweating like a motherfucker. So in a nutshell, same-old, same-old. So hey, keep checking back. Who knows? In another month or two, I might be compelled to share the goings-on of my amazingly dull life again. And remember, nothin' says lovin' like a swift kick in the crotch.

Currently listening : The First 10 Explosive Years By Atomic Rooster Release date: 18 January, 1999

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Musicals: The Musical!

I'm not usually one for musicals, whether it's on stage or film. Not that I have anything against it, hell I've acted in several stage productions myself. I just don't like watching it.

In most of your classic musicals and their movie versions, like Fiddler on the Roof or Anything Goes, it seems like the plot comes to a grinding halt so everyone can sing and dance about some minute plot point for five minutes. Contemporary musical films fall well-short of the entertainment mark, too, but for different reasons. You have movies adapted from musicals adapted from non-musical movies (Mel Brooks, I'm looking in your direction). We also get god-awful cinematic still-births like Moulin Rouge, where the filmmakers were so lazy they just shoehorned modern pop songs into the mouths of Ewan MacGreggor, Nicole Kidman and (ugh) John Leguizamo. Don't even get me started on Disney, Aladdin, and all those shitty Elton John and Billy Joel songs.

Occasionally, Trey Parker and Matt Stone make the rare musical that entertains me, like Cannibal! or the South Park movie. Also, I've heard Evil Dead: The Musical is pretty good (anything with an audience "Splatter Zone" that's not a Galagher show gets my approval). But even I stopped laughing at the "When I Was On Top of You" scene in Cannibal! and started fast-forwarding through it after a couple of viewings (although the "Fudge, Packer?" tag at the end still cracks me up). Trey Parker is an admitted fan of musicals, and songs like that and "Up There" from South Park are intended more as a parody of classic musical cliches, especially those of the aforementioned House o' Mouse. It's that scene, about halfway through, where a character sings a tender ballad about how great life would be if only they can get that girl, climb that mountain, or have their flaws magically corrected. Well, duh! Who's life wouldn't be better! "You mean Beast doesn't want to be a beast? He wants to be a normal guy so Belle will give up the booty? Thank god that teapot and candelabra spent three hours singing about it, or I never would have figured that out!"

I'm an impatient and busy man. I'm not waiting around forever to find out what the hell is going on with Lost, or if Jack Bauer will do whatever it is he does when he's not torturing someone. I'm definately not sitting through twenty minutes of plot with two hours of singing crammed into it like an overstuffed beanbag chair.

Currently listening : New Heavy By Dub Trio Release date: 23 May, 2006

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Name Change!

I've decided to change my screen name. Why? Why the fuck not? I do what I want, when I want. I answer to no one. Not you, not my probation officer, no one.

I felt my old name lacked any real insight into my character. As anyone who's spent more than five minutes with me can attest, "Random Dan" is quite fitting. See, my brain is kind of like a giant game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. Millions of thoughts, ideas, facts and opinions rattle around my head like little marbles. Instead of four day-glo plastic hippo heads, each with their own "chomping action" paddle, I have about thirty, each manned by a blind, spastic chimpanzee. They swat at their controls with psychotic zeal, howling away and flinging feces at each other. Occasionally, one manages to grab a marble (usually Mr. Pepper, manning the orange hippo), but instead of being collected in a little cup, the marble/thought falls out of my mouth. After that, depending on my mood and state of inebriation, I'll begin to free-associate, not so much assembling straight chains of thought as a complex lattice or wicker chair. Ideas weave in and out of each other, intersecting but never really connecting. Then I get distracted, forget what I was saying, and the process begin again.

I'm better when engaged in a conversation. I can talk certain topics to death, going on and on long after everyone else has lost interest and moved on. In these modern times, what with the kids today with their Blackberries and IM-ing and their baggy pants and the Pokemon, conversation has almost become a lost art. "OMFG!" "LOL!" "BRB!" This is not a conversation, people. I fear the day I hear high school kids using chatroom shorthand to talk to each other. A recent Cingularrrrrr commercial pokes fun at this idea, but to me, the ad is a vision of a bleak, hellish future where everyone communicates in cute acronyms. I think things will be okay, as long as no one figures out how to use "smileys" and "zwinkies," or whatever the fuck they're called, in real life. "I met a girl! We get along great, and we're gonna get married!" "What's she like?" "Well, her avatar is really cute!"

I suppose I'm not one to talk. It's a lovely day out, a bit overcast, but comfortable. Where am I? Sitting around in my pajamas, writing this thing for people to read on the Internet. At least I'm using real words and putting some thought into grammar. And besides, I've been up since 6 AM, tending to a bunch of stupid, filthy animals and the horses they own. I can sit around in my jammies all damn day if I want. As previously stated, I answer to no one.

Keep it greasy, bitches.

Currently listening : (Godzilla's) Eatin' Dust By Fu Manchu Release date: 30 November, 2004

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Thoughts on a sunny afternoon...

Howdy. Been awhile, no? I missed you. Like many folks around here, I've been pretty sick lately, coughing up all sorts of horrible things. I'm 98% better now, but that fucking storm set me back a little.

I know for a fact that some of you have been having a shitty week. Hell, who hasn't? Apocalyptic flooding, power outages, and tragedies both personal and public. Neil Gaiman, a wiser man than I, said in his novel Neverwhere, "Events are cowards. They never come at you one at a time, instead they jump you all at once." I'm paraphrasing, of course, but it's true. Sometimes this big, bad world sees us getting too complacent and gives us a sharp slap in the face to snap us out of it. Sometimes it acts less subtley and punches you right square in the junk. When pushed to the absolute limits of one's physical and emotional endurance, it's all too easy to give up. I should know. I've been giving up for most of my life. But no more.

Times like these really bring your world into focus. All the bullshit drops away. Trivial things that once seemed to rule your life are forgotten. All you're left with is what truly matters. One minute, it seems like the universe has a personal vendetta against you. Then, one morning you wake up. The sun is shining and a warm breeze blows through and clears away the debris. You look around, and you find yourself surrounded by the people you love, and who love you back. Smiling faces, laughter, and the knowlege that you are not alone overwhelm you. Suddenly, that flat tire, your aching knees, the idiot who fucked your lunch order up, none of it matters anymore.

I've been very priveliged to meet, work with, and get to know some amazing people over the last ten months or so. The words do not exist that can explain what an impact they've had on my life. I've always wandered through life without a plan, unmotivated and uninspired to be anything but miserable. I longed for something, anything to take me away from the emptiness of my world. Through a series of seemingly random occurences, all that changed. At age 25, I find myself reborn into a world full of possibilities and people who actually care. I reached within myself and found all the positive energy that lay burried beneath over two decades of unrelenting lonliness and pain. I found I had the ability not only to love, but to be loved. Now, I can't even remember what my life was like before.

In these trying times, all we can do to keep ourselves sane and safe from drowning in misery is look to those we love, and know that this too shall pass. We must look to the future, when we'll all be together again. We can never give up. We just have to keep fighting and never, ever surrender. What else can we do?

I love you guys. Now, enough of this schmaltz. Next time, I'll be funny. Promise.

Currently listening : Flood By They Might Be Giants Release date: 05 January, 1990

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I done broke my kidneys...
Current mood: Sore

I gotta remember to stay hydrated. I spent most of my morning drinking coffee, and of course I got so wound up by the afternoon that I had to drive into Portland and walk around for 3 hours to burn off some energy. Plus, as anyone who has seen me in person can attest, I'm a fat slob. I get winded watching television, so any exercise I can get is good for me. Being the dolt I am, I forgot to eat anything today, aside from my morning vitamins, a donut, and a couple of those cereal bar-thingies. On top of all this, I'm still recovering from my usual battery of spring colds, and I was up late drinking on Saturday (apologies to anyone who saw me shirtless that night- you will one day be able to hold down solid food).

So I've got a stomach filled with black coffee and not much else, I'm out of shape, it's 40 degrees out (not counting the stiff winds), I'm blowing snot all over myself every time I breathe though my nose, and to cap it all off, I don't have any water. So imagine my surprise four hours later when my kidneys start to ache. Normally I wouldn't post two blogs in one day, but I need something to take my mind of the pain. Hence the Sam Black. Mutant hardcore rock played at high volume always eases my ills. It's just at my favorite part, too, when the last track, "Big Barbeque" morphs into a cover of "Disco Inferno." It does me well to hear Jet howling "Burn that fuckin' mother down!" in that spastic voice of his.

Dude, I just can't stop 'til my spot gets hot.

And in case you're wondering, yes, my current profile picture is a still from the 1968 George A. Romero classic Night of the Living Dead. "They're dead. They're all messed up."

If you see me out and about this weekend, I ask you to do your part in saving me from myself. It only takes three words: "Moderation and hydration." If you see me, please give me this gentile reminder, so that I might stay alive long enough to see if Britney Spears ever gets her life back together. Poor kid.

Currently listening : Sam Black Church By Sam Black Church Release date: 11 June, 1993

8:31 PM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

With apologies to all fast food workers...

Quick: Name the fast-food restaurant chain with the worst service.

Okay, times up. If you said anything other than Dunkin Donuts, you're wrong. It never fails to surprise me that the place with the most limited menu (coffee and its myriad variations, donuts, bagels and bagel-based sandwidges) has the slowest turnaround time after you order. And that's any time of day, not just the hours before 9 AM when they're actually busy. You could be the only customer in the joint, and yet a simple cup of coffee (a little milk and no sugar, thanks) and a Boston Creme donut takes an infinite amount of time. Even though I've gotten my snack and gone home, I'm still waiting in line as I write this.

And the employees! I know what a soul-crushing gig fast food can be, and hey, we've all had shit jobs. I don't expect you to have sunshine spraying from every pore, but when you're being paid to provide customer service, you should try to be pleasant. Just make an effort, that's all I ask. The best attitude I've gotten from a DD employee was business-like. Normally, they act like customers are imposing on them, like they're doing you a HUGE FUCKING FAVOR by not turning the sesame seed bagel you wanted toasted into a lump of ash and pure carbon.

If you work, or have ever worked, at a Dunkin Donuts (or any fast food hellhole), you have my sympathy. I wouldn't trade places with you for all the Puddin' Pops in Bill Cosby's freezer, and I shovel horse shit for a living. There are exceptions that prove every rule, and I'm sure if you're reading this, you are one of them (because, hey, if you read my blog, that's several million style points to you). Remember, your job may suck, your co-workers may suck, and the customers may suck. Just be thankful you have one of the few jobs left in America that can't be shipped overseas.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some leftover Easter ham to eat.

I love you all,
Dan the Trash Can Man

Currently listening : Hayseed Timebomb By Nine Pound Hammer Release date: 16 April, 1995

10:33 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

So, movies...
Current mood: Giddy as a little girl

I saw Grindhouse last night, and I can honsetly say it's the best movie I've seen in a long time. The whole thing was like an amusement park for scholars of exploitation cinema (such as myself), with two movies and four parody trailers for the price of one. Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez did such an amazing job of capturing the sleazy vibe of the old 42nd Street movie houses, I could have swarn I was in a broken-down theater, surrounded by drug dealers and masturbating deviants. Which, considering I was in Falmouth, ME, I probably was.

The Grindhouse package is presented just like the old exploitation double features that used to play in third-rate theaters and drive-in across this country. It opens with a trailer for Rodriguez's Machete, a non-existant action movie starring Danny Trejo as the title character, "the world's most dangerous Mexican." From there, it goes right into Rodriguez's Planet Terror, a wild mutant/zombie puke-fest about a shady millitary deal that results in the spread of a virus that turns it's victiims into canibalistic, decaying "sickos." Freddy Rodriguez stars as El Wray, the mysterious, Snake Plisken-style hero, and Rose McGowan plays the now-iconic Cherry Darling, a go-go dancer with an M16 for a leg. Together with group of survivors (including Aliens' Michael Biehn and gore legend Tom Savini as cops) they defend their small Texas town from the rapidly spreading infection. Ultimately, Planet Terror is more John Carpenter than George Romero, with music (composed by Robert Rodriguez) that's like a tejano version of Escape From New York's Capenter-penned score, and gross-out moments that rival Capenter's The Thing for shear vomit-inducing power.

My favorit part of going to the movies has always been the trailers, even if I don't want to see half the movies advertised. Rodriguez and Tarrantino understand the trailer's allure, and to transition between the movies, they got three up-and-coming cinephile directors to make exploitation trailer parodies. First up is Werewolf Women of the SS, "directed by Rob Zombie," and starring genre legends Udo Kier, Bill "Choptop" Moseley and Tom Towles. That's followed by Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz director Edgar Wright (check my Top Friends for his MySpace page) and his trailer, a Hammer Studios parody which I can't tell you the title of, namely because it's the punchline of the whole piece. Finaly, Eli Roth (Cabin Fever, Hostel) brings us the slasher Thanksgiving, the only major holiday there's never been a horror movie based around.

The second movie, Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof, is a high-speed stalk-and-slash flick with a twist: The killer uses his car to take out his pretty female victims. It's been described as a cross between car-chase classic Vanishing Point and Lucio Fulci's The New York Ripper, and that seems as apt a description as any. Kurt Russel stars as Stuntman Mike, ladykiller. Litterally. He charms, then terrorizes, a group of girls, chasing them down in his souped-up, rollcage-equiped Chevy Nova, before meeting the only people who might stop him: A couple of thrill-crazy stuntwomen in a 1970 Dodge Challenger. In typical Tarantino style, there is a lot of dialog (much of it about the affore-mentioned Vanishing Point- buy or rent it today, motherfucker), which can start to wear on you once you've hit the 150-minute mark, but any potential boredom vanishes once Stuntman Mike and the ladies in the white Challenger cross paths. What follows is one of the wildest car chases committed to celluloid, with Kiwi stunt legend Zoe Bell ("as Herself") clinging to the Challenger's hood bare-handed for much of the Detroit muscle carnage. Death Proof also features a bitchen soundtrack of obscure 60s R&B, all of which I must now own.

All in all, Grindhouse is an ingenious, unique, and immensely entertaining theatrical experience. It's the kind of thing one truly must see to believe. Be prepared for carnage, mayhem, and pure hilarity. Go see it. Then see it again.

Currently listening : Garage Beat '66, Vol. 1: Like What, Me Worry?! By Various Artists Release date: 27 April, 2004

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