IN REMEMBRANCE OF JOEY RAMONE

As the lovely Xtina reminded me, today is the sixth anniversary of the passing of my man Joey Ramone. If you have no idea who he was, look him up and crank some of his tunes, "Here Today, Gone Tomorrow" being rather appropos. And what better picture of him could I run on this particular blog than one of him in Japan, representing next to a statue of Kamen Rider?

We miss ya, Joey. GABBA GABBA HEY!!!

OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!-MOST HORRIFYING COMMERCIAL OF THE YEAR

Have any of you borne witness to the horror that is the current ad for Berries and Cream Starbursts? It opens with two stoned-looking (and I should know!) dudes hanging out at a bus stop, munching on the new flavor of Starbursts fruit chew candies, and when one of them mentions the berries and cream goodness, this guy suddenly appears from out of nowhere:

"Did you say berries and cream?" shrieks the Little Lord Fauntleroy homunculus, bedecked in his foppish finery. The stoners look at him like he just stepped off the mothership. and he compounds the bizarreness by launching into a singsong bit where he's clapping his hands like a Capuchin monkey on crystal meth and singing "Berries and cream! Berries and cream! I'm a little lad who loves berries and cream!" while rhythmically capering in place.

There's a brief pause as the stoners look utterly gobsmacked by this:

The camera cuts back to Foppy McDouchebag who ups the ante by somehow becoming more manic, repeating (!!!) his song and adding a heel-clicking leap of joy before doing a Jolsonesque jazz hands finish as he squeals "Berries and CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAM!!!" The End.

Exactly what the fuck does that ad mean? I was waiting for Carson Cressly to savagely kick the guy's ass on general principle, but no such luck. Can anyone explain this one to me? This horror can be seen at http://www.boardsmag.com/screeningroom/commercials/4078/ and simply has to be seen to be disbelieved.

GOOD RIDDANCE TO DON IMUS

When famed shock jock Don Imus' MSNBC simulcast show got cancelled yesterday in the wake of his controversial comments about the Rutgers women's basketball team, the Scarlet Knights, I thought it was just a slap on the wrist while his CBS program remained on the air unchecked, so imagine my surprise when CBS actually fired his no-talent ass today. Public outcry and fleeing advertisers are one thing, but usually broadcasters of Imus' prominence will get off with a reprimand and an insincere apology to the offended party, but Imus seriously fucked himself in the ass by referring to the mostly Black basketballers as a bunch of "nappy-headed ho's." When the Scarlet Knights went on TV with a live press conference to address how Imus' comments took the spotlight from their hard-won achievements during the season, his description of their hair was proven to not only be an offensive racist slur, but also utterly nonsensical since not one of the girls sported an Afro.

Anyway, what I want to know is why it's taken so long for anyone to do anything about Imus' behavior; he's been repeatedly cited for sexist and racist comments for years, but I guess he got busted this time because his venom tainted a story that was ready-made for an inspirational movie about a group of empowered young women and their coach, and as we all know, America loves to be touched by such sagas. I honestly believe Imus' idiocy would have once more gone unpunished had it not been so pointlessly focused on a group of young women of color who did nothing more than strive to be the best on the court, coupled with his reference to them as "ho's." These alleged "ho's" were all exemplary students at one of the nation's most rigorous institues of higher learning, and in no way deserved Imus's lazy, ignorant attempt at humor.

I, for one, have hated Imus' brand of humor for thirty years, ever since I heard some of my fellow campers at Wilderness Camp guffawing to his pedestrian japes, and my hatred only grew when he blatantly copied nearly every move that made rival Howard Stern successful yet never bothered to actually be funny. I mean, look at this album cover from the 1970's:

The motherfucker couldn't even come up with an album title without referencing Richard Pryor's Grammy-winning "That Nigger's Crazy," for fuck's sake! I'd like to kick his nuts off for biting from my man Richard... I'm glad he's off the air, but let's see how long that lasts. And lose that goddamned cowboy hat! Unless you're out there roping cattle, Don, it makes you look like a poseur dickhead.

HOW DID I NOT THINK OF THIS?

There are times when I could really kick myself for not coming up with something that was right there in front of me. I was cruising the internet today and found the following image. Dear readers, I give you the brilliance that is GG ALLIN ALDA.

GRINDHOUSE TANKS AT THE BOX OFFICE

Looks like the bloom is off the rose (Rose McGowan, that is); despite lots of good reviews, GRINDHOUSE got a serious shellacking at the box office during its opening weekend and will probably continue to decline for a few legitimate reasons:

1. Unless it's a flick about Hobbits hauling their asses to a volcano, the majority of the American moviegoing public are not willing to sit through a three hors-plus movie.
2. Add the well-deserved "hard R" rating to the running time, and you automatically shear off a percentage of the audience.
3. Why release a carnage-loaded thrill ride during a holiday weekend traditionally associated with Jesus, going to church, and dressing up in foofy Easter duds?

I was discussing this with my pal Chris Weston (he's in England and the film is not yet scheduled for release over there) and he suggested that due to it's failure in the US, GRINDHOUSE would most likely be split into two separate features for its European release; I pooh-poohed that idea on the grounds that the film is constructed as an "experience" rather than two disparate efforts, but just this morning Chris sent me the following, cribbed from somewhere on the internet:

"After its disastrous opening weekend, many have begun the manic speculation as to why "Grindhouse" failed to click with US audiences.

The film's extended 192 minute runtime, lack of audience awareness of the 'Grindhouse' concept, and generally bad counterprogramming move to release the film at Easter is being cited as the most likely reason.

Harvey Weinstein told DeadlineHollywoodDaily.com that "I'm incredibly disappointed. We tried to do something new and obviously we didn't do it that well" and adds that according to research, it was that runtime that was "the single biggest deterrent".

The fate of the films now is in question and there's already one idea - splitting the movie in two like it will be in European territories. With what is said to be a near $70 million budget, and an at least admitted $30 million marketing cost, the company is in definite need to try and recoup its money. 

"We could split the movies in a couple of weeks. Make Tarantino's a full-length film, and Rodriguez's too. We'll be adding those 'two missing reels' that's talked about in the movie" says Weinstein.

Whilst non-English speaking territories have already been set for the dual-film release, there's now also talk that the planned single releases for the UK and Australia will be turned into dual-release films as well."

Pfooey, sez the Bunche. Oh, well, It'll probably go over nicely on DVD where the viewer has control over the running time and can take breaks as neccessary. In the meantime, here's some GRINDHOUSE-related spank material:


If the producers really wanted to recoup their losses, they'd release this cover as a big-assed poster! 'Scuse me, but I have to go be alone for a while...

THE ANCIENT WRITINGS OF BUNCHE

I spent this Easter weekend at my mom's house in Connecticut, and when I got there she handed me a stack of essays, compositions and such that I'd written when I was around nine years old. Among them were pages from my fourth grade class' attempt at journalism, the "Super School Paper," a cutting edge source of information on which I served as feature editor and contributor. My early efforts included a piece on how Hermes became the patron god of those who live by their wits, a brief description of how the 1933 version of KING KONG came to be, and the following bit of Halloween fiction:

MY TRIP INSIDE A PUMPKIN

On Halloween night I was walking down the street to my friend's house. I had a log way to go so I felt a rest would be nice. There in front of me was a pumpkin! Then I felt myself contracting! There was a hole in the pumpkin shell so I went in. Then I grew to my normal height. In front of me was a... I don't know what to call it but it was horrible! It was red and panting heavily. His teeth were that of a shark's and his nails were cut to a sharp point. Then with an earth trembling roar he sped after me! Suddenly a giant bird scooped me up and dropped me to a paradise beyond imagination! There was a brook at my feet so i took a drink. It was a magic elixir. Then I was at my friend's house.

Steven Bunche
1st Prize-
Mrs. MacDonald's

It was a real kick in the guts to see all the earmarks of my lurid purple prose evident at such a young age, to say nothing of winning first prize for pretty much tripping out and describing the unnameable Lovecraftian horror lurking in the innards of a fucking pumpkin!

GRINDHOUSE (2007)

I'll cut straight to the point: if you love 1970's exploitation flicks the way I do, stop reading this right now and get your ass on line for GRINDHOUSE. The film aims to recreate the experience of sitting through a sex-and-violence-drenched double feature in a grungy environment, complete with simulated shit-quality prints and dubious trailers, and succeeds in spades. And it really is a double feature, with the two films and other goodies adding up to three hours and eleven minutes of balls-out mayhem.

The first feature is Robert Rodriguez's PLANET TERROR, an ultra-gory throwback to the days when zombie flicks ruled the screen (with a strong dose of ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK thrown in for goood measure) and logic came in a distant second. An experimental gas escapes into the air of a small Texas town, rendering most of the populace into flesh-scarfing, pustule-festooned undead, and those lucky few who find themselves immune must take up arms and kick motherfucking ass to stay alive and attempt to stop the gas from spreading and bringing about the end of the world. Rose McGowan headlines as go-go dancer Cherry Darling, whose unfortunate encounter with some flesh-munchers leaves her minus one leg, and her mysterious ex-boyfriend, El Wray (Freddy Rodriguez, the director's little bro), proves to be quite the badass as he dispatches zombies with extreme prejudice and equips Cherry with a machine gun/grenade launcher prosthetic limb. In between offal-showering set pieces, there's a healthy streak of ludicrous humor, and I laughed my ass throughout at the over-the-top gleeful bedlam of the whole thing.

After some fake trailers (I won't spoil the surprises, because they're laugh-out-loud hilarious, especially the one with Nicolas Cage in the most outrageous role of his entire career) we get Quentin Tarantino's DEATH PROOF, a delightfully schizophrenic hybrid of VANISHING POINT's gearhead histrionics, the psycho-behind-the-wheel found in flicks like DUEL and THE CAR, and the tough girl genre best exemplified by the immortal FASTER, PUSSYCAT! KILL! KILL! The story gets off to a slow start as we meet four young women who are unwittingly stalked by the scarfaced Stuntman Mike, played by one of my all-time favorite actors, Kurt Russell, who looks like he's having too much fun for his own good.

Kurt Russell as the twisted Stuntman Mike.

Stuntman Mike is a particularly sadistic yet charming vehicular serial killer, and after the story pulls a PSYCHO by letting us get to know and care about the women only to have them horribly killed (I rather liked the bouncing severed leg), another group of women is introduced. This quartet consists of two professional Hollywood stuntwomen, an up-and-coming actress, and a makeup artist, and when Stuntman Mike sets his jaundiced sights on them he doesn't realize he's chosen absolutely the WRONG bunch of girls to fuck with. All of this leads to one of the most harrowing and spectacular chase scenes since maybe as far back as THE ROAD WARRIOR, with real-life Kiwi stunt maniac Zoe Bell (Uma Thurman's stunt double on KILL BILL, here playing herself) giving her all on a car hood as she holds on for dear life at nearly two-hundred miles per hour while Stuntman Mike attempts to run her and her companions off the road.

Zoe Bell: pretty — and badassed like a motherfucker — in pink.

No bullshit, campers, I have not had this much fun at the movies in years, and I left the theater with a smile on my face so big that my head nearly split in half. Do NOT miss GRINDHOUSE in the theater; it'll still be excellent fun on DVD, but a major part of the experience is seeing it with an audience of jazzed-up louts who are in on the vibe and whoop and holler at all the right places. You've heard of other films being touted as "thrill rides," but GRINDHOUSE actually delivers a cracking good, sleazy romp just as exhilirating as a go-round on the Wild Mouse with a gut full of tequila and a brain pan full of really good LSD. I know it's early yet, but GRINDHOUSE not only gets my highest recommendation, but also steps up as my choice for the most entertaining movie of 2007. And considering how pussified R rated movies have become in the violence and gore department over the past twenty-five years or so, I have no idea whatsoever how they got away with even a third of the gruesome carnage on display here.

TRUST YER BUNCHE!!!

GOING OUT WITH A BANG: A FAREWELL TO BAR BQ

NOTE: to truly get the proper ambience for this post, listen to The Meteors album “Meteor Club-The Best Of.” Trust me on this one, especially the tune “Electro.” Oh, and also put on the Damned’s “Drinking About My Baby” on endless loop for full effect.

So this past Saturday night was my final shift at the barbecue joint and it was quite a shindig, an evening loaded with good wishes, good friends, and a couple of serious hints and a half for my beige ass. But before I get to all that, let’s skip back to a few days previous.

One of the things that I stated I would not miss was work related injuries; about a month ago my hands were severely burned when grease drippings from the oven latched onto me like fucking napalm, and since one of the realities of kitchen work is getting cut or branded such an ouchie was par for the course, so I ignored the burns and went back to what I had to do. The problem with that was the washing of implements every ten minutes or so, and the industrial strength soap that would not allow my wounds to heal, my skin only fighting its way back from crocodileness on my two days off when I had no contact with noxious chemicals. I swear to the gods, my hands looked like I was motherfucking Boris Karloff making a grab for the Scroll of Life in THE MUMMY (1932), a condition that elicited coos of nurturing sympathy from the sweet lesbian couple who live across the street from the barbecue joint. And as if that shit wasn’t irritating enough, on Friday night I suffered an allergic reaction to something in the air in the kitchen, and my eyes felt like they had been splashed with nitric acid. I itched like a bear all night, getting maybe two hours of sleep, and I had to be at a press junket/book signing for GRINDHOUSE in Manhattan Saturday morning by 9AM.

When I awoke I was horrified to learn that my eyes were nearly swollen shut, and various parts of my sexy self were covered with a virulent, itchy rash (even parts that REALLY shouldn’t ever get irritated, if you get my drift), requiring lots of Neosporin, Benadryl itch stopping cream, and calamine lotion. Undaunted, I made it to the signing and got the first of many pleasant surprises on my final barbecue day: I got to meet not only Quentin Tarantino, but also director Robert Rodriguez, actor Freddy Rodriguez, and the whip-it-out-and-jack-it-like-a-monkey double-barreled hotness of Rose McGowan and my dream girl, super-hot and funny NYC geek girl Rosario Dawson. No pics were allowed by the studio, but I did get to chat with all of them, and they were all very nice and funny as hell, particularly Rosario. I got my “making of” book signed by the lot of them, and got the lovely Miss McGowan to sign a GRINDHOUSE poster for the barbecue joint’s kitchen. I then hightailed it back to Brooklyn and went on duty for my final shift.

When I arrived at work there was a palpable air of melancholy about the place, and the staff of the restaurant next door even hung up a sign letting me know I’d be missed.

And in the barbecue joint the daily drink special was changed to “the Bunche,” a shot of Jose Quervo tequila and a beer chaser, my nightly dose of choice now made available for those brave enough to surrender to its evil.

While I showed up ready to put my nose to the grindstone one last time, my kitchenmates wouldn’t have it, so I pretty much got to take it easy and chat with well-wishing regulars until we got fucking avalanched with takeout orders. But before that my boss and his family showed up to wish me well and thank me for my contributions to the restaurant over the past two years. And then we got slammed with so much bar traffic and people ordering food that the place had not one empty seat in the house for hours, so I wasn’t able to hang out with the friends and lunatics I had invited until about 9PM, an hour after my stated time of departure from the kitchen.

Once out in the dining/drunkenness area I threw myself into the festivities with Bacchanalian abandon, reveling in the good vibes, the laments at my leaving, the bevy of drunken hot chicks squashing their jubblies all over me (no, I did not get lucky, those cruel harpies), and the frightening amounts of Budweiser and tequila that found their way down my gullet. Luckily for me the party gods were on my side that night, and while I ended up rather looped and sentimental by the end of the night, I held it together well enough. My tolerance for the Budweiser/Cuervo mix is legendary, and after this special Saturday night I vow to put it to rest (at least as a daily, multiple-round act of boredom-diverting self-destruction).

Presiding over the bar was the joint’s Nordic nymph, Joy (aka “the Frost Giant’s Daughter”)

and the soundtrack for the night was provided by one of my absolute favorite regulars, one Soren DeSelby, who provided the discs full of stuff that not only I would love, but stuff to delight those in attendance and not send them fleeing for the door. Some of the patrons even complemented the bar on the music, making me happy, and Soren deservedly proud of his excellent efforts.

My little sister, Meredith, showed up with her boyfriend, Hugh (whom I liked quite a bit and hope to get to know) and got to meet several of my friends and extended family, charming the living shit out of them while virtually every guy in the house told me to my face that they wanted to nail her… Now, my sister is twenty-five tears old, has a boyfriend and can take care of herself, plus the fact I’m not an overprotective big brother, so I offer the following bit of advice to all horny guys (and, to be honest, a few of the women in attendance) in the known universe: if you want to nail some guy’s sister, don’t tell the guy, Tell the sister, and risk either a fun time or a solid right to the gob. I mean, what am I, a fucking pimp, for fuck’s sake?

During the rest of the night, as I wallowed in soused bliss and cheery tidings, I posed for pictures both straight and silly,

ruminated on just how much pulled pork can look exactly like vomit,

introduced my buddy Hughes to my other favorite Irishman, namely Garth Ennis,

and marveled at the sight of Harley the bunny deep in a trance induced by her owner.

No joke, I wandered over to where Erin sat and saw the cute little rabbit in her lap flat on her back, stiff as a board with her little legs pointing straight up to the ceiling. Erin explained how the bun was hypnotized, then she revived Harley by pressing a pressure point; the wee beast then groggily began to stir, sat upright and raised her ears to suss out the situation, none the worse for wear.

But all good things, and eras, must come to an end, so I departed the joint shortly before 3AM, taking advantage of a ride kindly offered by my friend, the foxy as a motherfucker Lia. All in all, a great sendoff, with the only thing missing being the presence of Tracey the waitress goddess, who was away for a reading of her literary works in New Orleans. I’ll see her again soon enough, though.

The scary part of all this is that I awoke the next morning at 11:30 WITHOUT A HANGOVER, and dropped in at the barbecue joint to turn in my final time sheet. Both joy and my former-kitchenmate, Andres, looked shocked to see me at all, much less feeling so chipper and ready to head into Manhattan for a full day of shopping. I bid them farewell and sauntered out into the beautiful, sunny day, my future uncertain but bound to be an upgrade, both creatively and socially.

So I bid you adieu, Bar BQ, and much continued success. My job there is done, so now it’s on to other things. Wish me luck!

Bunche — senior cook and force of nature at Bar BQ, A Brooklyn Barbecue Joint. March, 2005-March 2007

HUNDRA (1983)

As allergy medication rendered the Mighty Bunche a loopy, futon-bound mess, the benevolent gods of DVD obscurity saw fit to take pity upon the stalwart mocha warrior and did bless him with a stack of flicks, among which was found the long overdue release of Matt Cimber’s HUNDRA. And our hero was most pleased.

Let’s get one thing straight. Be they high-class epics (I don’t care what you say, GLADIATOR was a barbarian flick) or low budget sword-and-sandal flesh and blood fests, I love me some barbarian movies. CONAN THE BARBARIAN stands tallest in my estimation of the genre, and even the laughably execrable SORCERESS counts as one of my all time favorite films, so I welcome the DVD availability of even the most obscure entries in the genre, and HUNDRA certainly fits that description. As one of the dozens of loincloth extravaganzas released in the wake of CONAN’s success, HUNDRA came and went in the blink of an eye, somehow being missed during my daily scouring of the movie listings, and that’s no mean feat since I even managed to see DEATHSTALKER during the nanosecond it played at the local grindhouse. For years I heard tell that HUNDRA was a better than usual example of the genre, but having fallen victim to such claims in the past and being burned by such recommended films (CONQUEST and HAWK THE SLAYER among them) I never bothered to check it out even when it periodically turned up on cable or VHS.

Then I went to Manhattan’s esteemed Kim’s Video on Sunday afternoon and found HUNDRA just released on DVD with the accompanying soundtrack album (by one of my favorite composers, lifetime achievement Oscar Winner Ennio Morricone!!!), and at $15.95 I figured it was worth taking a chance on. And I was absolutely right.

HUNDRA opens with a narration about a tribe of warrior women who happily live apart from men (requiring them only for reproductive purposes and giving away any male offspring), and how the strongest of their number, the uncouth and unkempt Hundra (Laurene Landon), has left on a hunting mission. Once Hundra’s out of sight we see their village attacked for no reason whatsoever by a bunch of helmeted male assholes who worship the bull, the ultimate symbol of manliness. The women put up one hell of a fight, but they are soon mercilessly raped and slaughtered, leaving the returning Hundra as the next-to-last survivor of the tribe. After killing fifteen of the men who destroyed her people, Hundra visits the cave retreat of the tribe’s aged holy woman for advice on what to do next with her life and isn’t very happy with what she hears: in order to perpetuate her tribe, she must make flaming Osh-Osh with a man (YECCH!) and give birth to a girl child. A man-hater to the core, a disgusted Hundra declares “No man shall penetrate my body, either with a sword or himself!” — you GO, girl! — but she can’t let her people die so she butches up and sets off with her faithful (if cowardly) dog, Beast, on a literal quest for dick.

After being accosted by a warrior midget (?), our girl encounters a drunken, flatulent barbarian dude and attempts to hump him, solely so she can get the noxious deed over with, but his patriarchal assholism earns him a righteous ass-kicking. Undeterred, Hundra heads to the nearest city in search of worthy genetic material and finds it to be the home of those bull-worshipping pricks, run by a priest who enlists the town’s unwilling young women to be trained to service the needs of warlords in the local temple. Needless to say, that shit don’t sit too well with Hundra so after preventing some soldiers from abducting a girl, the blonde warrior intentionally starts some shit with the authorities in order to hit the temple and teach the harem a thing or two about feminism. After a swashbuckling battle that would have been right at home in THE ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD, Hundra falls through the roof of a handsome, kindly doctor and swiftly finds her loincloth to be a very humid place indeed. When the guy refuses to submit to her demands made at dagger-point, Hundra has a change of plans and decides that maybe she could learn from the temple women how to appeal to the doctor instead of scaring the shit out of him. Once at the temple, Hundra pretends to submit to her docility and grooming training, all the while teaching her companions about their own self-worth and sneaking out for house calls with the doc. And when the mighty Hundra finds herself pregnant, the shit really hits the fan!

Somehow finding the perfect balance between humor and adventure, HUNDRA is a hoot from start to finish, and star Laurene Landon’s athletic skills more than make up for her thespic deficiencies, allowing her to come off like a less-polished Errol Flynn. It’s cheap, silly, and even kinda stupid, but it’s a perfect Saturday afternoon popcorn-muncher that’s a proto-XENA must for all the little girls out there; sure, it’s rated R and has a smattering of nudity (the raping thankfully takes place off-camera, so the flesh on display is a bit of casualness in the harem and a looney bit with a bare-nekkid Hundra riding her horse in the surf), but it’s a great lesson on taking no shit from patriarchal douchebags and doing what needs to be done for the greater good, namely getting knocked up by a total stranger you tried to coerce with sharp objects. Heartwarming stuff, indeed.

COUNTING DOWN: ZERO

Saturday night marked my final shift at the barbecue joint. Yes, dear readers, I'm outta there and looking for my next gig, so I'll have to get used to so-called normal hours again. The day was quite eventful from the moment I woke up through the moment I finally conked out — including meeting Quentin Tarantino, among other luminaries; god DAMN, Rosario Dawson is a fucking fox!!! — so I have to process everything before I post a full account. The whole story should be up by Wednesday at the latest, so bear with me.