Monday, July 29, 2013

Doing the right thing

Frogger, deconstruct D)all of the above*

*did jam ninja-ly** to a stack of Darkthrone discs this weekend so hail hail rock and/or roll for truth in advertising for once

**sans air guitaring and/or neck wrecking***

***one wreck's good n' plenty****

****do "they" still make these?*****

*****I know "they" still puke out the great taste of Charleston Chew******

******66, the number of the beast, ******66, the one for you and me

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Trust no one especially me

Holy, Scully, my favorite non-scrimshaw entertainment turns a robust twenty! In September but why wait 'cause blathering 'bout dums, goopers, and broken systems makes me wanna Mike Tyson's punch myself out. Sure, the Slick Willie black helicopter 90s ain't got nuthin' digitally on our Prismatic Wall, save vs. technofascist age, but in terms of panache, every show that doesn't feature stupid cops or stupid lawyers or stupid doctors or stupid ha-has owes a fistful of metal tribute to this mightiest of genre beasts.

As with bands, the best shit is the old shit [read: pre-Hollyweird sun, but don't be a foolish fool and sleep on some late run gemstone fun], and the bestest with the mostest is found primarily among the first three where director of photography John S. Bartley's dank, basement grit beautifully lit the natural brood of cold, damp Vancouver into delicious gloom. Shouldn't every gig be filmed up there?


The Erlenmeyer Flask. Gripping action, Scully-lipped exposition, noir convention, plop plop alien fizz oh WTF they shot him Usenet they fuckin' shot Deep Throat. Convoluted or not later on = opinions = assholes, so just lap up the great unknown 'cause the chase is always better than the catch.

Humbug. "I believe these are your trailers. If they are not, then I am wrong." Jim Rose Circus Sideshow! Scully the bug-eater! I hope bugs, big gaping-maw ones, eat the empty three-pieces that never gave Darin Morgan his own show.


Duane Barry/Ascension/One Breath, or, holy shit, our lead actress's oven's bunned. Best on-the-fly adaptation in the history of Satan's mind control box. The always great Steve Railsback is great as always, and Steven Williams was, funk exchanged for trenchcoat natch, fuckin' Shaft.

Squeeze/Tooms. THE creepy creeping creep, but whether that's Doug Hutchison himself or his liver-eating mutant alter ego is entirely up to way your brain fries.

Clyde Bruckman's Final Repose. Life sucks, and then, stupendous yapper, you die. Peter Boyle hits a 600-foot dinger and why didn't Darin Morgan ever get his own show?

Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space.' A Charles Nelson Reilly tour-de-force, an inner core, reincarnated soul sex orgy in screenplay format. I'll take Why the blankety-blank-blank didn't Darin Morgan ever get his own show for $500, Alex.

"For although we may not be alone in the universe, in our own separate ways, on this planet, we are all alone."

See, the truth is indeed out there.

Bad Blood. He said, she said meets vampires. Much guffawing ensues. Toothless critics, stick to meth. Vince Gilligan's best work was on the X-Files.

The Host. Nuclear waste doesn't have benefits? Ladies and germs, the Flukeman!

Irresistible. Humans are always spookier than mutants or aliens, I mean, according to the literature. Let us celebrate both the birth pangs of the obscenely underrated Millennium and Scully's 100th abduction. And it's only season two!

Memento Mori. Glowing green tanks of clones, drawer after drawer of abductee ova, Mulder and the Lone Gunmen doing some funky poaching whilst dodging bullets, and oh yeah, the Big C. Skinner deals with the devil for Scully's cure. That can't end well.

Zero Sum. Skinner -- Skinner! -- time to pay up. Results not pretty, but, unlike Scully's disease, survivable, at least until next week. Sure, the alien virus-toting bees are the mythology's narrative weak link, but oh, those moral and legal conundrums!

Anasazi/The Blessing Way/Paper Clip. A master class in how you employ the master race, as alien-human hybrid making tools of their hegemonic inheritors, i.e., us. Though on second thought, I just might prefer the Unit 731 two-parter later on in season three. Oh, beguiling villainy, swoon.


War of the Coprophages. Artificially intelligent, dung-eating, robotic probes from outer space can spice up any Friday night. Written by you-know-who.

Unusual Suspects. Everyone loves a superhero origin story. With bonus Steven Williams!

Pusher. Most compelling cerulean blue this side of the CSM, en plus detective Frank Burst, whose heart, of course, burst.


Darkness Falls. TREES IST KRIEG. Chris Carter may have weaned his chops on Kolchak, but the greasy ick of those nature's revenge flicks surely seeped in.

The Pine Bluff Variant. A stretched rubber band of a thriller featuring undercover danger, a far right fringe determined to use a lethal toxin on an unsuspecting populace, a toxin manufactured by our own government, the fringe itself the agent of nefarious elements within said government?

Oh, paranoid conspiracy, how I miss you.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Am I evil?

Blood on Satan's Desert Island.

What's that nagging, needling, niggling Ipecac wretcher called when there's a billion blatherers dying to upchuck on a zillion chunks of this, that, t'other but, lo! out the black blood of the earth! a quadrillion don't cares have erected a Godzilla-sized Erector set bricked up with Lego bricks of adamantium that even a doped-up Ghidorah can't fuck with?

Albums make much better companions than people.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled egads-a-thon.

Monday, July 8, 2013

When it's cold, and when it's dark, the freezing moon can obsess you

Jesus H. Cthulhu, I hate summer. Fuck this fucking season.