Sorry about not posting for a while, but I had to work a week long shift to allow a co-worker to spend time with his mom before she returns to the old country; no major adventures to report anyway, so no big.
Anyway, for the past few days I noticed a pungent stench within my tiny abode, namely the scent of the enemy gone tits ups. You guessed it, another mouse went on to meet its maker and left the mini-stink bomb that was itself as a final “fuck you.” The problem was finding the tiny corpse in my notoriously cluttered flat and disposing of it ASAP.
As well as I could I tore my place apart, searching out the usual trap-laden areas and came up with bubkes. It went on like that for days; pulling out my stove, book cases and refrigerator to no avail, burning incensce all the while and tearing out sizable chunks of my Jim Kelly tribute ‘fro in frustration. Then, tonight, just rummaging around under my horribly crowded sink cabinet, I found Mickey Mort, half-cannibalized by one of his brethren, lying on his side like some rodential odelisque.
Rather than be overjoyed by the discovery I was rather confused since no traps were laid under the sink; that space was a labyrinth of cleaning solution bottles, plastic shopping bags for garbage or recycling uses and assorted junk, so I figured that a trap would be wasted there since it would be a bit of an obstacle course even for one of my diminutive foes. Lesson learned: do not underestimate the very tiny. Hell, I should’ve know that after all the stories I’ve read or seen about Ray Palmer, Hank Pym, Salu Digby, the crew of the Proteus (they traveled through a dude's venous system and destroyed a tumor in his brain!), and even the Borrowers, for fuck’s sake… But I wouldn't want to kill any of them!
I removed the critter and searched for clues that would explain the site of death, finally cleaning the place out in the process, and found an unexpected answer. About two months ago I grew ever more irritated at the building’s annual rodent infestation and went to the store for my usual round of traps. I purchased a box of what I thought were Tomcat brand glue traps — yeah, yeah, I know you activists out there are gonna bitch, but get it through your heads: I love animals, but on the subject of vermin infesting my residence I AM NOT ON YOUR SIDE, so deal with it. And besides, every single one of you has cats, so I really do not want to hear about it — but what I purchased turned out to be those poison pebbles that you can just spread around and I have a problem with poisons since you never know where they can turn up, so I just chucked the unopened box under the sink and forgot about it. Why I didn’t just toss it into the trash is beyond me…
Well, apparently the claims on the box proved true and the little sumbitch couldn’t resist chewing through the box for the tasty-yet-lethal munchies within, and consequently paid with his life. And in doing so, shared the poison with his family who had clearly feasted upon his mortal remains. I have not heard any of the frequent nighttime skitterings, so I would guess that the other mouse/mice have also joined the Choir Invisible.
Anyway, thank you Tomcat brand. Please send me a promotional t-shirt and i will proudly wear the motherfucker!
Friday, January 20, 2006
Monday, January 09, 2006
PRECINCT CHICKEN
The other day I had a hankering for one of my periodic infusions of KFC, better known to those of us who are unafraid to date ourselves as Kentucky Fried Chicken, and I knew of one such location near the barbecue joint where I work, perhaps not so coincidentally near Greenwood Cemetery. Sadly, a large number of NYC chicken joints attract the dregs of humanity in the form of junkies, beggars and sundry criminal types, most of whom are, sadly and embarrassingly, my fellow highly rhythmic individuals. Many such establishments are frequently held up by firearms-wielding latter day Zulus, and since it’s perceived as “boogie-on-schvuggie” crime no one really cares, so the locals who frequent these establishments have adapted and learned to accept the unscrubbed interiors and six-inch-thick bulletproof glass battlements, along with the uncouth antics of the walking minstrel show rejects who infest them. If you want an in-your-face catalog of every negative black stereotype go to nearly any KFC in Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx — not so much Manhattan anymore since most of them have been co-opted into the Reise restaurant conglomerate and can now be found in areas frequented by tourists and other such white people — and be prepared to cringe.
So anyway, I got off the bus near 28th street and trekked over to the KFC on Fourth Avenue. I entered and was astonished by the gleaming, obviously germ-free surfaces and floor, and the complete and utter lack of bulletproof shielding. The clientele consisted of a handful of Asians — who actually cleaned up after themselves when they finished their meal, unlike most of my highly rhythmic brethren at the one near my apartment — several elderly Hispanics and three black people (myself included, and the other two were an elegant lady and her well-behaved four-year-old), and the staff were all white kids…
“Have I stumbled into an alternate plane of reality?” I asked myself as my mind frantically grasped for an explanation as to how a chicken joint that was fit for humans could exist in this location, just a stone’s throw from an equally immaculate White Castle, the infamous burger chain/colonic Chernobyl that also caters to an unsavory segment of the population.
And then I realized what was up: located directly between the two restaurants was the neighborhood police precinct. The local cops appeared to be a well-fed lot ó there is also a Dunkin Donuts across the street, and Heaven forfend that anyone should fuck with a gorging-source for our Boys in Blue…
These restaurants had to be the safest places in the area, and the staff of both smile cheerfully, secure in the knowledge that only the most cracked-out idiot with a death wish would ever entertain the thought of robbing them at gunpoint. So if you’re in the area and in the mood for secure bad eating, do drop in.
So anyway, I got off the bus near 28th street and trekked over to the KFC on Fourth Avenue. I entered and was astonished by the gleaming, obviously germ-free surfaces and floor, and the complete and utter lack of bulletproof shielding. The clientele consisted of a handful of Asians — who actually cleaned up after themselves when they finished their meal, unlike most of my highly rhythmic brethren at the one near my apartment — several elderly Hispanics and three black people (myself included, and the other two were an elegant lady and her well-behaved four-year-old), and the staff were all white kids…
“Have I stumbled into an alternate plane of reality?” I asked myself as my mind frantically grasped for an explanation as to how a chicken joint that was fit for humans could exist in this location, just a stone’s throw from an equally immaculate White Castle, the infamous burger chain/colonic Chernobyl that also caters to an unsavory segment of the population.
And then I realized what was up: located directly between the two restaurants was the neighborhood police precinct. The local cops appeared to be a well-fed lot ó there is also a Dunkin Donuts across the street, and Heaven forfend that anyone should fuck with a gorging-source for our Boys in Blue…
These restaurants had to be the safest places in the area, and the staff of both smile cheerfully, secure in the knowledge that only the most cracked-out idiot with a death wish would ever entertain the thought of robbing them at gunpoint. So if you’re in the area and in the mood for secure bad eating, do drop in.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
WELCOME TO MY WORLD
One of the fun things about maintaining this blog is having some of the regulars at the barbecue joint as fervent readers of my ramblings, presumably entertained by the true-life narrative revolving around the place where many of them eat their fill and get soused on an almost daily basis. However, with a few exceptions, most of the regulars do not ever get to witness the parade of lunatics and losers that I often chronicle, and some began to wonder if my tales of drunkenness and mental illness were merely figments of my febrile imagination. Allow me to provide a case in point: two of my regular attendees and readers are Chez and Jayne, a charming and genteel couple with whom I hit it off immediately. I'd say that I see either or both of them on about four out of my five days/nights on duty, and they had yet to behold the spectacle of the random loonies who periodically cross over into our little barbecue world.
Until the other evening.
Chez pulled up a seat at the bar shortly after 5PM and proceeded to get his drink on while waiting for Jayne to join him after getting off from work. About a half hour later a rotund, middle-aged man appeared at the door and stared at it quizzically for a few moments; I could almost see the mice running on the treadmill in his cranium in an attempt to fire up his synapses enough to process exactly how to gain entry into the joint. His ham hand unsteadily grasped at the space opposite the door handle, and after about a minute of my boss and I gazing in wonder at his futile efforts to open the door from the wrong angle he sussed out the problem and stumbled in.
In one of those rip-the-needle-off-the-record moments the fellow blearily scanned his surroundings and presently locked his gaze on my boss, who was behind the bar and therefore the man to talk to in order to obtain volatile libations. My boss and I exchanged a knowing glance in agreement over the guy's fucked up state, a condition that he instantly verified by mumbling something rather unintelligible that was apparently "I want some more shots!!!"
Now let me tell you in no uncertain terms that this guy was majorly shitfaced — and I should know from such things — at a mere 5:30PM, so there was no way in hell that my boss was going to serve the dude; for those who do not know, it's against New York State law to serve liquor to someone who is visibly intoxicated, and this guy was in no way coherent.
My boss politely refused the guy any more liquor but made it clear that we would be happy to serve him soft drinks or food. Our ever-on-the-ball waitress/goddess, Tracey, breezed over to the table where the walking amalgam of gin sugars had situated himself and sweetly walked him through the menu with the patience of a saint, a task made all the more difficult by English being the guy's second language, and none of the staff are even remotely conversant in Polish. After Tracey successfully skirted the language barrier, the guy finally agreed upon a pulled pork sandwich with a side of macaroni and cheese.
While waiting for his sandwich the walking wasted gestured wildly, apparently irked because he thought our ceiling was dirty, and he suggested that he'd be willing to repaint it for us. That bit of grasping for work led to him asking if he could do general chores for us for cash (or so I thought), a notion politely rebuffed by my boss.
Presently his sandwich arrived, and when Tracey set it down in front of him he stared at it like it was a serpent, coiled and ready to strike at him. This standoff went on for the next ten minutes or so, and when he finally scarfed into the sweltering swine flesh I fervently placed a silent prayer to whatever barbecue gods there may be that the dude wouldn't blow Thunderbird-marinated chow all over the table.
During all of this Chez — remember him? One of the subjects of this entry? — sat wondering how the staff puts up with such nonsense on a daily basis, all while girding his sensibilities with steady doses of Budweiser. Soon, Jayne showed up and joined her husband at the bar, and was swiftly brought up to speed on the unfolding dramedy. At that point Tracey gave our bombed guest his check, and the guy then managed to convey to us that he was homeless and had no cash. He wandered into the men's room, and upon coming out he spotted Jayne, whom he walked up to and said "I'll see you later," apparently confusing her for Saint Tracey of Greenwood. He then packed up his belongings and departed. What the fuck could we do but let him leave? My boss concluded that by letting the guy off he was scoring points for his own personal karma, so what the hell?
Once the deadbeat cleared out, Chez and Jayne went off for about a half hour about finally experiencing what I write about and extending kudos to the staff for our seemingly endless patience with this sort of shit.
Welcome to my world, motherfuckers.
Until the other evening.
Chez pulled up a seat at the bar shortly after 5PM and proceeded to get his drink on while waiting for Jayne to join him after getting off from work. About a half hour later a rotund, middle-aged man appeared at the door and stared at it quizzically for a few moments; I could almost see the mice running on the treadmill in his cranium in an attempt to fire up his synapses enough to process exactly how to gain entry into the joint. His ham hand unsteadily grasped at the space opposite the door handle, and after about a minute of my boss and I gazing in wonder at his futile efforts to open the door from the wrong angle he sussed out the problem and stumbled in.
In one of those rip-the-needle-off-the-record moments the fellow blearily scanned his surroundings and presently locked his gaze on my boss, who was behind the bar and therefore the man to talk to in order to obtain volatile libations. My boss and I exchanged a knowing glance in agreement over the guy's fucked up state, a condition that he instantly verified by mumbling something rather unintelligible that was apparently "I want some more shots!!!"
Now let me tell you in no uncertain terms that this guy was majorly shitfaced — and I should know from such things — at a mere 5:30PM, so there was no way in hell that my boss was going to serve the dude; for those who do not know, it's against New York State law to serve liquor to someone who is visibly intoxicated, and this guy was in no way coherent.
My boss politely refused the guy any more liquor but made it clear that we would be happy to serve him soft drinks or food. Our ever-on-the-ball waitress/goddess, Tracey, breezed over to the table where the walking amalgam of gin sugars had situated himself and sweetly walked him through the menu with the patience of a saint, a task made all the more difficult by English being the guy's second language, and none of the staff are even remotely conversant in Polish. After Tracey successfully skirted the language barrier, the guy finally agreed upon a pulled pork sandwich with a side of macaroni and cheese.
While waiting for his sandwich the walking wasted gestured wildly, apparently irked because he thought our ceiling was dirty, and he suggested that he'd be willing to repaint it for us. That bit of grasping for work led to him asking if he could do general chores for us for cash (or so I thought), a notion politely rebuffed by my boss.
Presently his sandwich arrived, and when Tracey set it down in front of him he stared at it like it was a serpent, coiled and ready to strike at him. This standoff went on for the next ten minutes or so, and when he finally scarfed into the sweltering swine flesh I fervently placed a silent prayer to whatever barbecue gods there may be that the dude wouldn't blow Thunderbird-marinated chow all over the table.
During all of this Chez — remember him? One of the subjects of this entry? — sat wondering how the staff puts up with such nonsense on a daily basis, all while girding his sensibilities with steady doses of Budweiser. Soon, Jayne showed up and joined her husband at the bar, and was swiftly brought up to speed on the unfolding dramedy. At that point Tracey gave our bombed guest his check, and the guy then managed to convey to us that he was homeless and had no cash. He wandered into the men's room, and upon coming out he spotted Jayne, whom he walked up to and said "I'll see you later," apparently confusing her for Saint Tracey of Greenwood. He then packed up his belongings and departed. What the fuck could we do but let him leave? My boss concluded that by letting the guy off he was scoring points for his own personal karma, so what the hell?
Once the deadbeat cleared out, Chez and Jayne went off for about a half hour about finally experiencing what I write about and extending kudos to the staff for our seemingly endless patience with this sort of shit.
Welcome to my world, motherfuckers.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
2006 WILL BE A FUCKING GREAT YEAR FOR US HOKUTO NO KEN GEEKS
Folks, I believe that the new year will be great for a variety of reasons, but I just got the best piece of news I've heard in a hell of a long time: starting in March the will be a brand new FIST OF THE NORTH STAR - HOKUTO NO KEN to us purists - theatrical animated film for the next three years, finally doing justice to the awesomeness of the manga. The first of the new films focuses on what is in my opinion the most undeniably badassed segment in the warrior epic, namely Kenshiro versus Souther, a SERIOUSLY BADASS motherfucker if ever there was one. Go to http://www.hokuto-no-ken.jp/ and once you enter the site click on the trailer.
God DAMN, I wanna see this film!
God DAMN, I wanna see this film!
Sunday, December 25, 2005
PETER JACKSON'S KONG: OTHER VIEWPOINTS
I finally read Harry "Ain't It Cool News" Knowles' review of the new KONG and was shocked by his opinion of the piece. The guy is an annoying, stereotypical geek (yeah, yeah, I know that I fall into that category, too)whose writing is usually on par with that of a sixth-grader, but despite a devotion to the original that I heartily agree with Harry was able to evaluate the current remake intelligently, as opposed to his usual heaping of praise upon films that are completely unworthy of such attention. Go to http://www.aintitcool.com/display.cgi?id=22032 and read it for yourself.
And also go to imdb.com and check out the user comments section for Jackson's KING KONG; I was pleasantly surprized to see the large number of moviegoers who were on the same page about it as me, rather than the usual legion of thralls who fall down in supplication before the latest Hollywood blockbuster/product. For once the public has not been mesmerized by the eye candy on display.
And also go to imdb.com and check out the user comments section for Jackson's KING KONG; I was pleasantly surprized to see the large number of moviegoers who were on the same page about it as me, rather than the usual legion of thralls who fall down in supplication before the latest Hollywood blockbuster/product. For once the public has not been mesmerized by the eye candy on display.
RAMBLINGS OF A CHRISTMAS INSOMNIAC
It's very early on Christmas morning; I'm in the family room of my mother's house in Connecticut, the sun has not risen, and there is nothing on TV except for infomercials, religious programming, DADDY DAYCARE, and that old standby, channel 11's "The Yule Log" (for those who have no idea what "The Yule Log" is, it's a four-hour, static, commercial-free shot of a burning log in a fireplace accompanied by an endless selection of Christmas songs. Yes, it's four solid hours of a burning piece of lumber. No, really!). In short, it's hell for a person whose work schedule has programmed him for a mostly nocturnal existence (I usually turn in for bed around 3:30 AM, and since I napped yesterday afternoon to compensate for my very early waking and train journey from the hinterlands of Brooklyn my sleep programming is kaput).
My old buddy, Chris - who's more of a brother really - was over last night, and as we do every Christmas Eve we found ourselves on a last minute quest for beer with which to fuel a holiday DVD viewing. This year's odyssey took us into Bridgeport's Black Rock area where we found a corner bodega that filled our libational needs, and our quest fruitfully culminated at Fairfield's 7-11 all-night convenience store (where to my horror I spied the glossy "Westport Magazine" on the rack right next to a poorly-drawn issue of Superman). In retrospect, we should have simply gone there in the first place since they not only stock an adequate selection of mighty brewskis, they also had edible snacks such as Corn Nuts (or, as I call them, "colon clearing wonders") and big, fat hot dogs for less than two bucks, with which you have the option of slathering the potential gastro-intestinal Chernobyl with free chili or cheese (I opted for both). I wasn't really even hungry, what with having indulged in my mom's excellent Yuletide cooking from the moment I set foot off the train, the Harrington ham being a particular favorite, but I was caught up in the familiar delights of being home even for a brief moment, and indulging in the kind of town-to-town jaunting engaged in during my misspent car-propelled youth (c. 1980-1983).
Chris and I eventually returned to the homestead and watched a truly pitiful collection of vintage 42nd Street movie trailers, mostly come-ons for truly terrible-looking Euro-horror obscurties and Italian/Spanish/French sex comedies that at least had the simple decency of keeping us awake with a delightful array of lovely Euro-titties and the now rarely seen splendor of "seventies bush." That treat was followed with Rudy Ray Moore's anti-epic PETEY WHEATSTRAW: THE DEVIL'S SON-IN-LAW, in which Moore plays a character who is exactly like Dolemite (google that name if you don't know what I'm talking about), except that he isn't, and the usual profane bargain basement blaxploitation/kung fu/sex/comedy shenanigans ensued before Chris and I called it a night at nearly 1:30 AM.
I settled into the foldout bed that now dominates what used to be my room and popped in 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY to lull me to sleep (it's a good flick with great visuals, but let's face it, it is one ponderous motherfucker) and was presently in dreamland. For the first time since my early childhood I dreamt about things Christmas-related and came up with the following realization: In Dr. Seuss' classic children's book/annual animated inevitablity "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," we are regaled with the tale of the Grinch's attempt at fucking over Whoville and it's residents - conveniently named "Whos" - and I recalled the other story involving Whoville, namely "Horton Hears A Who." In that one we are told that Whoville is a microscopic community existing as a dust mote upon a dandelion, a delicate metropolis that could be decimated as easily as saying "boo!" Since the Grinch lives on a mountain top near Whoville, that means that he's really itty-bitty too, so he suddenly doesn't seem like such a badass to me anymore. And given the relativity regarding scale, the lifespan of your average Who, and probably the Grinch, would be pretty damned short, and both of those stories would have occurred in barely the blink of an eye to you or me, seeing as our proportions are downright Brobdingnagian in comparison to Old Doc Whovy, the Grinch, the kid who shouts "Yop!," and of course little Cindy-Lou Who, who was no more than two.
As I end with that inconsequential musing, I look up and see that the sun is rising to greet the gray Westport morning (it's supposed to rain, so no white Christmas) and I anticipate the soon-to-come opening of presents, but what is really getting me going is the excellence of soft-scrambled eggs with bits of diced Harrington ham mixed in... Hey, since I'm not getting any pussy for Christmas I can put aside my urges as a voluptuary and engage in full-bore gluttony!
Merry Chrismahanukwaanzakka, kiddies, and may 2006 be a better year for all of us!
My old buddy, Chris - who's more of a brother really - was over last night, and as we do every Christmas Eve we found ourselves on a last minute quest for beer with which to fuel a holiday DVD viewing. This year's odyssey took us into Bridgeport's Black Rock area where we found a corner bodega that filled our libational needs, and our quest fruitfully culminated at Fairfield's 7-11 all-night convenience store (where to my horror I spied the glossy "Westport Magazine" on the rack right next to a poorly-drawn issue of Superman). In retrospect, we should have simply gone there in the first place since they not only stock an adequate selection of mighty brewskis, they also had edible snacks such as Corn Nuts (or, as I call them, "colon clearing wonders") and big, fat hot dogs for less than two bucks, with which you have the option of slathering the potential gastro-intestinal Chernobyl with free chili or cheese (I opted for both). I wasn't really even hungry, what with having indulged in my mom's excellent Yuletide cooking from the moment I set foot off the train, the Harrington ham being a particular favorite, but I was caught up in the familiar delights of being home even for a brief moment, and indulging in the kind of town-to-town jaunting engaged in during my misspent car-propelled youth (c. 1980-1983).
Chris and I eventually returned to the homestead and watched a truly pitiful collection of vintage 42nd Street movie trailers, mostly come-ons for truly terrible-looking Euro-horror obscurties and Italian/Spanish/French sex comedies that at least had the simple decency of keeping us awake with a delightful array of lovely Euro-titties and the now rarely seen splendor of "seventies bush." That treat was followed with Rudy Ray Moore's anti-epic PETEY WHEATSTRAW: THE DEVIL'S SON-IN-LAW, in which Moore plays a character who is exactly like Dolemite (google that name if you don't know what I'm talking about), except that he isn't, and the usual profane bargain basement blaxploitation/kung fu/sex/comedy shenanigans ensued before Chris and I called it a night at nearly 1:30 AM.
I settled into the foldout bed that now dominates what used to be my room and popped in 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY to lull me to sleep (it's a good flick with great visuals, but let's face it, it is one ponderous motherfucker) and was presently in dreamland. For the first time since my early childhood I dreamt about things Christmas-related and came up with the following realization: In Dr. Seuss' classic children's book/annual animated inevitablity "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," we are regaled with the tale of the Grinch's attempt at fucking over Whoville and it's residents - conveniently named "Whos" - and I recalled the other story involving Whoville, namely "Horton Hears A Who." In that one we are told that Whoville is a microscopic community existing as a dust mote upon a dandelion, a delicate metropolis that could be decimated as easily as saying "boo!" Since the Grinch lives on a mountain top near Whoville, that means that he's really itty-bitty too, so he suddenly doesn't seem like such a badass to me anymore. And given the relativity regarding scale, the lifespan of your average Who, and probably the Grinch, would be pretty damned short, and both of those stories would have occurred in barely the blink of an eye to you or me, seeing as our proportions are downright Brobdingnagian in comparison to Old Doc Whovy, the Grinch, the kid who shouts "Yop!," and of course little Cindy-Lou Who, who was no more than two.
As I end with that inconsequential musing, I look up and see that the sun is rising to greet the gray Westport morning (it's supposed to rain, so no white Christmas) and I anticipate the soon-to-come opening of presents, but what is really getting me going is the excellence of soft-scrambled eggs with bits of diced Harrington ham mixed in... Hey, since I'm not getting any pussy for Christmas I can put aside my urges as a voluptuary and engage in full-bore gluttony!
Merry Chrismahanukwaanzakka, kiddies, and may 2006 be a better year for all of us!
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
A KING RENDERED A COMMONER: PETER JACKSON’S KING KONG
I finally saw Peter Jackson’s remake of KING KONG yesterday and while it is in no way a bad movie per se — and is infinitely better than Dino de Laurentiis’ 1976 cinematic atrocity — I have to say that is not for me.Despite the fact that the 1933 original is my favorite movie, I divorced myself from the classic KONG for a few hours and trudged to the local multiplex, a strategy that helped me kill time until a cozy dinner party with some dear friends whom I hadn’t seen in months (barbecue joint schedule, dontcha know). Girded with a big sack of “buttered” popcorn and a fruit punch large enough to last through a three-hour-plus flick, I scoped out a seat that gave me a perfect centered vantage point in the virtually empty cinema. The lights dimmed, the commercials and trailers — all of which were pretty feeble — cranked by and then the film started.
We all know the basic tale: an ambitious filmmaker/showman leads an expedition to an uncharted island to film a fantastic monster. Said monster gets a major hard-on for the blonde starlet of the piece when she is sacrificed to him by the local crazy Negroes (in the South Seas???), hauls her up to his mountaintop crib through an island full of every horrifying creature imaginable while the film crew and sailors follow and meet hideous deaths, and is eventually captured and put on display on Broadway. The monster then escapes, snags the blonde again, climbs to the top of the then new Empire State Building, battles some biplanes, gets shot off of the building, plummets to a messy end and inspires the filmmaker/showman to state that “It wasn’t the planes that got him…It was beauty killed the beast.” THE END. The Jackson remake follows the same basic plot, but with a few tweaks and I will discuss in detail, so if you haven’t already seen the new one stop reading now for HERE THERE BE SPOILERS.
As you know the basic plot, I’ll just break certain elements of the film down, plain and simple.
- IT’S TOO DAMNED LONG. The story of Kong is already epic enough and it in no way needed to be expanded to over three hours of running time. The length also causes the film to seriously drag at times, so much so that I almost walked out during the last third due to its glacial pace and the fact that I already knew how the story ends. But I was good, and I stuck it out.
- THE DEMYSTIFICATION OF KONG. In the sixty-two years since the original we have learned a lot about apes — specifically gorillas — and how they behave, and Jackson has approached Kong as pretty much an ordinary gorilla, only one who happens to be twenty-five feet tall. He’s no longer an ageless deity/monster, but a sensitive anthropoidal puppy dog when in the presence of Ann Darrow. In other words, Kong is now mediocre.
- THE REIMAGINING OF THE ANN/KONG DYNAMIC. Ann Darrow is now a multitalented vaudevillian who, once she figures out that Kong isn’t as bad as he seems to be, entertains the big ape with somersaults, soft shoe schtick and juggling antics. There is no danger to Kong’s interest in Ann, other than the fact that she is in constant threat of being devoured by every critter on Skull Island as long as she sticks around. I really hated this development, especially when after rescuing Ann the crew hauls ass to avoid Kong, and Ann is ready to stay behind on the island so Kong will leave the rest of the cast alone. Now I don’t know about you, but no one in their right mind would volunteer to remain with Kong; sure, he’s a bad motherfucker and all that, but he can’t be there to protect your ass every waking second, and it is abundantly clear that Skull Island is a Lovecraftian hellhole full to bursting with carnivorous nasties. Ann may be blonde, but she didn’t strike me as stupid until she was ready to stay with Kong. And once Ann and the big guy become pals the saccharine factor goes through the roof, especially during the "Kong on ice" sequence that's meant to be charming but made me want to hurl, and Kong’s weepy demise. This is Kong, for fuck’s sake, not Old Yeller. I do NOT want to see Kong as a pussy.
- UNINVOLVING CGI. Special effects grandmaster Ray Harryhausen (JASON AND THE ARGONAUTS, THE SEVENTH VOYAGE OF SINBAD, THE VALLEY OF GWANGI, CLASH OF THE TIITANS) has stated that he felt that making special effects monsters too realistic rendered them mundane; there should be a certain unreality about them to give the fantasy a certain magic. The effects geniuses at New Zealand’s Weta studios have created some technically incredible creatures for the film, a virtuoso display of just what is capable of being unveiled before our wondering eyes, but the magic that Harryhausen sought and achieved is glaringly missing and the monster battles felt to me like I was watching someone else play a video game, an experience that I am sadly finding to be quite common in big effects-laden pictures. I did not care for Kong as a character and was utterly uninvolved in his exploits, but I was able to appreciate the artistry that brought him to life. And at least the plant-eating dinosaurs stick to their leafy ways and do not attempt to chow down on the sailors.
- AT THE BOTTOM OF THE RAVINE. What happens to some of the cast after they are shaken off of the log bridge by Kong into a deep ravine is the one truly horrifying moment of the film and I wish that the rest of the movie had one iota of the intensity found during this sequence.
- DISAPPEARING NATIVES. Once the heroes return to the native village after their pursuit of Kong, the multitude of natives has disappeared with no explanation. Where did they go?
- THE FINALE. I honestly did not give a damn during Kong’s Manhattan rampage — although I have to give Jackson thanks for using Max Steiner’s 1933 score during Kong’s Broadway debut — and when Kong did the slo-mo plummet from the zeppelin mooring, all I could think of was how much it reminded me of one of Wile E. Coyote’s falls in any of Chuck Jones’ Road Runner cartoons. The only thing missing was Kong fading from view only to be replaced by a muted “smack” sound effect and a tiny cloud of impact-disturbed dust.
- JACK BLACK SUCKED OUT LOUD. Sorry, folks, but Jack Black’s Carl Denham was a study in arch overacting. If it weren’t for SCHOOL OF ROCK I would never forgive the guy for this performance.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
JOURNEY TO SKULL ISLAND: DENIED!!!
Yesterday I was all set to see the 10 AM showing of Peter jackson's KING KONG remake; I had bought the ticket and was rarin' to go...then I got struck down by the wrath of some bad chicken curry and had the Mount Vesuvius effect coming out of both ends all night long, so I was not only unable to see the flick, but I was too worn out and debilitated to go to work after two days off.
What I'm wondering is this: did the spirit of my beloved 1933 KONG curse me into not seeing its glossier desendent? Hmmm, spooky...
What I'm wondering is this: did the spirit of my beloved 1933 KONG curse me into not seeing its glossier desendent? Hmmm, spooky...
Monday, December 12, 2005
TENDER-ASSED, FALL-OFF-THE-BONE OVEN SPARE RIBS
As you know, I work at a barbecue joint and totally kick ass in the kitchen (I also excel at humility); I am often asked to pass on the recipes that were handed down to me from my very southern — and very, VERY fat — ancestors who taught me to cook, and for the holidays here is the first of a couple of classics.
Yeah, yeah, I know that ribs are usually better as a summer thing, but deal with it.
INGREDIENTS
Pork spare ribs (or beef if you don’t eat swine)
Budweiser beer
Liquid smoke
Salt & pepper
Hot sauce
Cheap barbecue sauce
Garlic powder (or as many smashed garlic cloves as you can stand)
Honey
Brown mustard (NEVER use yellow!!!)
Worcestershire sauce
Marinade however many spare ribs you need over night in Budweiser, sealed in a large plastic freezer bag; Bud is important as the beer of choice because it does lend a particular flavor to the meat, and it’s available in most countries so you have no excuse for not using it.
When you are ready to cook, preheat your oven — Ooh! Sounds so naughty! — to three hundred and twenty-five degrees. Shake about two tablespoons of liquid smoke (found in the barbecue sauce aisle of your supermarket) over the meat; don’t use more than that because a little of the stuff goes a long way and can give the meat an artificial flavor if misused. Season ribs with salt and pepper to taste, put them in a deep baking pan (the cheap tin ones you can get at the market are just fine for this, and you can save yourself the messy cleanup afterwards by simply throwing the bastard out) and cover tightly with foil. The pan must be tightly sealed because as the ribs begin to cook they will steam in their own juices, thereby becoming very tender. Cook for two hours.
While the ribs are slow cooking, prepare the sauce in a large mixing bowl or pot with plenty of room for stirring/whisking. Using the hot sauce of your choice (I recommend Trappey’s Indi-Pep West Indian pepper sauce), blend liberally with at least one bottle of cheap barbecue sauce (I’d go with two as a general yardstick), as much honey, Worcestershire sauce and mustard as suits your taste, and a shitload of garlic powder, or smashed garlic cloves if you prefer. I recommend the powder since it’s easier to mix, but the smashed cloves add the unmistakable kick of real garlic. When all of this is blended it should have a consistency just a tad thinner than cake batter.
After the meat has cooked for two hours, pour off 95% of the juices and add the sauce. Cover tightly again and return to the oven for another hour. After that hour the meat should be rather tender, and you can take the foil off if you’d like the ribs to be a little bit on the browned side.
I highly recommend preparing this the day before you serve it since it will really find its flavor overnight, and they heat up great in the microwave!
Yeah, yeah, I know that ribs are usually better as a summer thing, but deal with it.
INGREDIENTS
Pork spare ribs (or beef if you don’t eat swine)
Budweiser beer
Liquid smoke
Salt & pepper
Hot sauce
Cheap barbecue sauce
Garlic powder (or as many smashed garlic cloves as you can stand)
Honey
Brown mustard (NEVER use yellow!!!)
Worcestershire sauce
Marinade however many spare ribs you need over night in Budweiser, sealed in a large plastic freezer bag; Bud is important as the beer of choice because it does lend a particular flavor to the meat, and it’s available in most countries so you have no excuse for not using it.
When you are ready to cook, preheat your oven — Ooh! Sounds so naughty! — to three hundred and twenty-five degrees. Shake about two tablespoons of liquid smoke (found in the barbecue sauce aisle of your supermarket) over the meat; don’t use more than that because a little of the stuff goes a long way and can give the meat an artificial flavor if misused. Season ribs with salt and pepper to taste, put them in a deep baking pan (the cheap tin ones you can get at the market are just fine for this, and you can save yourself the messy cleanup afterwards by simply throwing the bastard out) and cover tightly with foil. The pan must be tightly sealed because as the ribs begin to cook they will steam in their own juices, thereby becoming very tender. Cook for two hours.
While the ribs are slow cooking, prepare the sauce in a large mixing bowl or pot with plenty of room for stirring/whisking. Using the hot sauce of your choice (I recommend Trappey’s Indi-Pep West Indian pepper sauce), blend liberally with at least one bottle of cheap barbecue sauce (I’d go with two as a general yardstick), as much honey, Worcestershire sauce and mustard as suits your taste, and a shitload of garlic powder, or smashed garlic cloves if you prefer. I recommend the powder since it’s easier to mix, but the smashed cloves add the unmistakable kick of real garlic. When all of this is blended it should have a consistency just a tad thinner than cake batter.
After the meat has cooked for two hours, pour off 95% of the juices and add the sauce. Cover tightly again and return to the oven for another hour. After that hour the meat should be rather tender, and you can take the foil off if you’d like the ribs to be a little bit on the browned side.
I highly recommend preparing this the day before you serve it since it will really find its flavor overnight, and they heat up great in the microwave!
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