screenland!

really, it's just too much to swallow

If I've heard it once, I've heard it a zillion times. Yeah yeah yeah, I have dreadful taste in movies. I know. My appetite for cinema is basically the video equivalent of a take out pizza with extra cheese. Serve me up a slab of some crusty, queasy, sleazy & weird deep dish motion picture magical deliciousness that is thankfully devoid of any ingredient which could possibly be mistaken as wholesome, nutritious, or mother approved. I once got kicked out of the movie theater for projectile vomiting all over Julia Roberts' face during a traumatizing trailer for Eat, Pray, Love. True story. Would that technically be categorized as a splatter flick? Whichever way the barf blows, I'm still rating it a zesty two thumbs down (the throat). Splarf!

I'm suddenly feeling thuper hungry

Well, since you're such a GD expert, what sorta sleazoid scripts should I get my eyeballs glued to, already? Jesus.

I'm glad you asked. I suggest you select something that really turns your crank! Do you like bizarro campy art charmers featuring absurd protagonists who feather their frosted manes while whispering hushed soliloquies in quizzical Eurotrash accents as they simultaneously perform slow, sensual boogies that could perhaps be succored by the assistance of unlawful contraband, à la Liquid Sky? Yeah, me neither.

Excuse me while I Liquid Sky

If that makes you feel all daggy, perhaps, like me, you prefer standard slasher gore that's a little more meat heavy and generous with the plasma side dishes, saaaayy.... Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Blood Feast, the lesser Blood Diner, or even House of a 1000 Corpses. Squishy suppertime surprises, slow movin' hillbilly pussy magnets wielding ratchets & hatchets & hammers, oh my! And, oh yes, There Will Be Power Tools. Y'know, Camp Crystal Lake does seem like a pretty chill place to relax and experiment with doobie sparkage and pre-marital pudenda-fastening 'til you inevitably bite the big one and all, but it's Mamma's guts 'n gravy sammich & soup slurpreme that keeps my clicker in perpetual rewind mode. Yes, I own a VCR. No, you can't borrow it.

I'm WAY too stoned for this!

OR... Maybe you are the rare deviant bitch of my dreams who prefers the stylishly warped Giallo gemstones violently ejected straight outta the grizzled brains of eye-talian crown prince Lucio Fulci, such as New York Ripper or Don't Torture a Duckling (don't torture a wha...?) If that's your jam, you should probably feel shamefaced about your peculiar appetite for these '80s moving picture perversions, but nevertheless, I love and accept you with each one of my four beating chambers.

What? I just stepped on a duck. Golly...

do you know what today is?

You're goddamned right.

love, adore, etc.

Holy cats y'all! After what seems like a lifetime, I'm zapping myself back in time to a youthful place I like to call Easy Street, a sentimental stretch that slithers vertically erect on the edge of planet East Coast. I'm already in mad preparation mode, concocting extravagant glamour prescriptions for my juicy July escapade. A flight to Baltimore, followed by a drive to Brooklyn, we'll hit up Coney Island and Brighton Beach, drive back to D.C., then make our way down to Virginia Beach. I'm hoping to hit up all our old haunts & pioneer some new ones, too. If only we had time to include the elegant shores of Jersey and its glistening parade of orange pecs in our voyage! Damn...

My compadre in crime & I will be livin' it up like a couple of nitwit slobby bears as we roadtrip up and down the coast, gobbling up Coney dogs, strolling the boardwalk, wandering around in the scorching July heat in search of scrumptious wads of fluffy pink candy and two minutes of resplendent GGGG-force rollercoasting. We'll splash around in the delicious briny ocean and then trash motels galore with the refuse of six-pack suppers and fistfuls of uppers. What more could a simple hooligan like myself possibly want out of a wet hot American summer?

Wellll.... since you asked... we'll pay a visit to all our old digs, like Shoney's (for their gracious tolerance of our endless rounds of dominoes and rough language, as well as their enjoyably unique slant on suspiciously murky diner grub), the 9:30 and its more exploitation-centered unruly twin, the Black Cat (for a lip-smacking souffle of live ska shows and hot buttery nipples), the Pleasure Place (to chew the fat with the old gang, maybe stick around for a sticky story or two), and peep some zany killer-amok cinema at the Sand Screen for sure.

Can't wait for the galaxy of grimy & glittering adventures to be had! Getting pixilated in weird dive bars and kibitzing with wildly-accented New Yorkers will be the smokin' hot 7-11 queso on this super Americana burrito. Bon voyage, y'all!

summertime spelunking

Having a mental drought these days. Feverishly working on my novel and I can't seem to separate my blogging silliness from the family of characters sprouting up in my brains. However, I've finally greeted the new millennium with gusto and joined the ranks of the Twitter brigade (still refuse to get caught up in the rapture of Facebook, though. Baby steps).

Big Jer took this photo of me today in between baby cuddling & burrito chomping.

literate smut: tinseltown - take 1!

And A C T I O N . . . Some people may not know this about me, but I actually possess a PhD in Celebrity Exposés. I'd like to take a moment to present a brief composite of the research I've compiled over the past several grueling years spent devoted to conditioning my psyche with single-minded scholastic scrutiny into these indispensable case studies of tinseltown ethos:

Six Degrees of Paris Hilton by Mark Ebner

The good news: If you're a true glutton for punishment, but still can't stomach the notion of reading a book about an overgrown and underfed hotel scion with plastic hair and enormous feet, you'll be happy to know this gonzo tome has practically nothing to do with Paris Hilton. The bad news: If you feel you might be uncomfortable with any aspect of the truly filthy underbelly flopping uneasily beneath the Versace belt of Hollywood's neon six-pack of depravity, you will positively squirm at the sickening sequence of events outlined in this anthology of ballsy investigative journalism penned by showbiz super-sleuth Mark Ebner. I've always been fascinated by Hollywood's wolfish appetite for psycho starlets and their inevitable extermination from pop culture, but after reading this captivating account detailing the myriad exploits of presently-incarcerated criminal mastermind Darnell Riley and his posse of crooked California comrades, I have become damn near fanatical about soaking up as much diabolical lawbreaking juice as my wet-behind-the-ears little brain can absorb.

dapqueen gives it: 4 out of 5 casting couches

The Truth About Diamonds by Nicole Richie

An actual page-turning secret pleasure by Nicole Richie that hysterically dismisses the entire Hollywood faux-fawning/dick-stroking party scene in one jewel-sparkling swish of a bony wrist. This wry and catty satire provides a meow-wow look into the life of an on the rise B-lister who harbors some steadily escalating ill will toward a certain infamous celebrity racist (see above) she's been BFF with since kittenhood, as well as the rest of the aristocratic fameball bunch she regularly humps around Hell-A with (imagine: smokin' laced cigs in drug dens with Diddy; martini-swillin' at thousand-buck-bottle V.I.P. tables that come magically equipped with mirrored tabletops, thus rendering line formation in the powder room a mere inconvenience of clichéd '80s lore; and a top secret transmission of the mysterious world of haute couture's glitziest grimesters and its carnival of neurotic survival of-the-fittest riddles reported in exhaustive detail. Again, imagine: bingin', purgin', starvin', druggin', vom-ooping. Pop a TrimSpa, baby, spew one for the team, rinse, repeat, ad nauseam. Got that? Neither do I). With fierce characterization and attention to detail, Richie illustrates the fameballs' insoluble celluloid germination and punishes them with words for their assault on the festering tabloid industry that has by now given way to a full-blown rebirth of scandal sheets and digital defamers that have encircled all of our existences for nearly a decade. The result? An overflowing squirt of many new vast and torturous celebrity empires of idiocy, such as the golden-showered skinned Kardashian clan and all the rest of those loud annoying bitches on the E! channel. Bravo, Nicole!

dapqueen sez: 5 out of 5 casting couches

Star by Pamela Anderson

It has been an utterly disheartening experience to endure the constant scoffing people project upon the high praise I award this splendid fairy tale that depicts the ultra-shiny disco dusted planet that the "fictional" Star Wood Leigh resides on. If you've read enough bleak Bastard out of Carolina-esque accounts of cheerless family laments to last you a lifetime, this breezy beachside read might be a truly welcome respite. Solid gold, Pam. I feel that heat.

dapqueen shouts it from the rooftops: 5 out of 5 makeshift casting couches/tanning beds

sTORI Telling by um, hmm... oh! by Tori Spelling

Just... no. If you've ever tried peering into the soulless, money-hungry vacuum that is Aaron Spelling's darling daughter and imagined you might feel even a microscopic frisson of stimulation, you'd be dangerously mistaken. GIRL, PLEASE! You grew up in an opulent palace, starred in the '90s teen soap du jour with Shannen Doherty at the apotheosis of her wayward infamy, lived through at least one questionably successful schnozz-job, and your mom had a frakin' present wrapping room in the Spelling manor - yet even your ghostwriter removed herself from attempting to extract one peewee scrap of luminescence from the nebulous abyss of your personality? T, I totally had your back and you totally let me down! Why you gotta do me like that, T?

Cita, you tried warning me! What can I say? When you're right, you're right!

dapqueen murmurs: 1 out of 5 breakfast nook stools (that is where she landed those roles, right?)

Well, clearly I have exquisite taste in literature. Be sure to tune in for future installments of my exploratory celebrity probings! Next time I will include a shiny new cluster of firm but fair critiques, including the scintillating works of Leguizamo, Lords, and... Superhead? Cheers!

1 year today

I knew I was feeling a sense of unease on Friday, a vague sense that regurgitation was imminent. And so it happened. I felt dazed, though unlike most times, I didn't feel any relief when it was over. It wasn't until Saturday afternoon I realized why.

When something shocking happens, we tend to force ourselves to do one of two things: Isolate ourselves from others, live like monks (without the self-discipline), fear our own shadow and voice and, depending upon how far we've descended, become sadly absorbed by our perception of how others must think of us.

Or, in contrast, we force ourselves to consciously design new coping mechanisms, reconfigure the ways in which we choose to define ourselves, become - and this is a big one - gloriously less aware of how we perceive the way we think others feel about us.

A lot has happened within this past year. Some of it is terribly shocking, and some of it is shockingly good. I've lost family members in a terribly shocking way. I've come to terms with my own feelings of self-worth in this world after becoming the victim of a shockingly violent attack. I've sought out neuro-therapy and seizure cures for the nerve and brain damage incurred during the attack. I've decided that I no longer want to identify with being a victim. I've made the decision to move back to an area of the U.S. that tends to conjure within me feelings of emotional bewilderment. However, I've also made the decision to let go of the helter skelter hare-brain who stalked my every move and gladly wielded way too much perverse power over my feelings of self-value. Although it's been a few years since I've seen his hatchet face in person, his wretched acts of destruction and psychological terrorism have long since followed me, strangling my every thought, leaving imprints on my every move. Just as he'd hoped for. I've made a solid decision to stamp him out of my life for good. If he ever does come back in any form, I can rest assured that I didn't invite him.

I used to cry a lot. Now I cry very little. I used to hide from the world, afraid to say anything, terrified to vocalize my opinions, my voyages, my successes, my failures. Now I'm tapping into my social reserves, lunging headfirst into (admittedly awkward) conversations with others, eager to learn new social cues. Whereas before, I would feel threatened by somebody who asked me to share something about myself, for the first time in years, I'm actually keen on sharing tidbits of who I am with those who ask.

When you suffer profound loss, you feel obligated to commit yourself to the darkest place you can find within yourself in an effort to somehow unearth some light. You forge an embittered path through the dark roots and thick forests of your mind and tread a delirious line between complete self-destruction and pretending you're normal out of a basic necessity for survival. You devise cockeyed methods for waking up in the morning to go to work: You will not cry at the drop of a hat, but you will shoot daggers with your eyes at anyone who dares cross you. You will not roll your eyes at your boss, but you do feel compelled to brazenly let your naked hostility shine upon anyone who has the nerve to bitch about a bad day that involves rainy weather or incompetent co-workers. You don't even realize the loss of clarity, the soul-crushing weight of negativity, the hopelessness you feel until the inevitable thunderbolt of heavy opaque darkness looms over you like a big black umbrella on a stormy morning burial. And then, little by little, some lightness appears.

Recently, I've experimented with a new kind of therapy called EFT, or Emotional Freedom Techniques. I would like to invite anyone who has ever been wracked with pain, feelings of negativity, grief, guilt, shame, sadness, or depression they believed to be incurable, to try EFT. It doesn't cost money, it doesn't cost much time, and it's honestly the best thing I could ever have done for myself. It seems kooky, but it works. Don't ask me how, I just know that it does.

Rest peacefully Grandmas, Grandpas, Aunties, Uncles, Cousins & Sharon Lee. Too much goodness went by much too fast.

slathered, smothered & catman crothered

Another hastily penned sunrise scoop inspired by my elderly snoring kitty cat whose reverberatory internal furnace sounds like the primordial hard drive of Jumpin' Jack Flash on the fritz, followed by one too many late night X-rated chatroom confabs with Whoopi Goldberg after some feverish digital demonstrations of that fine inflated cocoa cushion.

WOO girl. Some things to go sit in the corner and ponder:

A) What I wouldn't give for the above-mentioned image to delete itself from my own internal storage apparatus.

B) Why do I always feel the need to interpret the contents of tasteful period-piece morsels of cinematic dynamite like Jumpin' Jack Flash and form inappropriate connections between the spunky lead character and the enigmatic co-star? I did it now, I did it with Ghost, and I see no reason to stop when I get around to catching up with Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit. Although, if it's anything like the first Act, the movie itself will be the inappropriate connection, possessing the outrageous gumption of confusing my brains with unclear ecclesiastical messages of gyrating nuns commingling with cloak-donning capos. All the while, my own face will share the leading role with a sparkling slab of saliva as it makes its way down my chin, since I generally save that magical crown jewel of VHS antiquity for when I'm fresh out of mellow-tonin.

C) What I also wouldn't give for Pissy Galore to re-route her catnap locales to a more discreet quarter within our quantum kingdom. On second thought. . . the faint mellifluous wheezing is pretty endearing, even if I am in constant fear of mindlessly petting her angel-soft pelt only to ladle great gobs of hearty semi-digested cat stew into my paws.

Does this look like the face of a pygmy beast prepared to make accommodations?

strip sequence

Q: Why did DC hand Jack Kirby's scripting duties over to Gerry Conway?

A: He had better Kamandi English language.

Earlier this morning, against my better judgement, I exposed myself to the hellacious pun-ishment of the Mandalorian Merc-infested dweeb dominion that is Kansas City's Planet Comicon. If you've ever had the pleasure of attending a comic book convention with a friend, you already know how deliciously nerdy the experience can be. If you've ever gone to a comic convention alone, however, then you can identify with the level of terror associated with lingering in the admissions line to receive your bright red Yoda hand-stamp of misfit approval only to get speared in the gut by a lightsaber that is clenched betwixt the dangerous dukes of a hyperventilating hygiene-rebel with little regard for personal space.

I feel it is my civic duty to remind you meatballs that infiltrating the stomping grounds of rabid fanboys is not a joke. I don't advise going alone unless you a) have enough pocket change to purchase a tray of the stalest nachos ever invented in the hopes that your silent sogging munches will somehow magically invoke the ministrations of superpower invisibility; and b) possess a deep well of patience that renders you immune to such vexing rib-ticklers as the one described above.

Also, I blocked out don't recall his name, but I would like to express my sincere gratitude to the zany joke junkie who supplied me with that monotonic yet nonetheless priceless Kamandi groaner. According to Edgar Allan Poe, "The goodness of the true pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability." Dude, you would have soaked your suspender-fastened britches if you witnessed the gnarled hodgepodge of humanity that skulked about the premises of that convention center. Thrilling highlights include...

Mega Monster Moxie

So, I'm fawning over some bloody disgusting DVDs and flipping through the supplementary literature surrounding the Troma booth and before I can even stab a memo into my blank bulletin board of a brain with a helpful reminder to practice conversational censorship, I manage to blurt out: "I would do anything to be in a Troma production!" to which the masculine mouthpiece replies with a slithering up-and-down assessment of my female form: "Anything, eh? Define anything. I don't see any reason why we can't make that a possibility, let's say... tonight? Heh heh heh." Awkward business card handoff and freaky one-eye blink ensue, and let me tell you, I could actually feel my face light up like Uncle Rudolph's progressively gin-blossoming nose at a familial holiday get-together decorated with tinsel and acrimony.

Nevertheless... Holy instant validation gratification, Batman! I'm honestly inclined to ignore the basic reality that it's his job to churn out identically charming retorts to the zillions of Troma-obsessed girl geeks who aspire to explore their cinematic chops in the realm of birthday suit B-movie bloodbaths, because it was actually the unequivocal horny highlight of my weekend! (You call it sad, I call it awesome. Go choke on it!)

And yes, to a certain extent, my head is in fact drooping at half-mast as a consequence of all the lessons instilled in me by way of Valerie Solanas' SCUM Manifesto. On the other hand, I probably did myself a complete disservice by not submitting to the cheeky chap's randy proposition of scrupulous oratory examination. If I had, my participation may have been required in the undertaking of a far more stimulating script than what I am able to supply to you at 10 o'clock on a Saturday night. Oh Ashley!

Olivia's Kindred Soulmate

A bitchin' Kansas City artist after my own heart, some of Jennifer Janesko's swoon-worthy subjects include Julie Strain, Dita Von Teese, and Echo Johnson, y'heard? Probably so, because in many ways, Jennifer's art is nearly indistinguishable in style from that of Olivia De Berardinis' voluptuous masterpieces, as they both tend to share a similar enthusiasm for breathtaking broads with jumbo juggs and impossible hip-to-waist ratios. I've often wondered if Olivia feels flattered or frosted by these inevitable comparisons. Either way, it was still pretty impressive to observe Jen sketching in action. (FYI, the photo above shows Dita posing with a soulmate of a different kind, as Janesko's website has made it crystal clear that the use of her images in any capacity is strictly verboten).

You're Solid Gold... I'll See You In Hell!

Racing heart nerd alert: Once upon a time I lived in D.C. If my best friend in D.C. was a comic book character who rocked the same outfit everyday, it would obviously be his yellow t-shirt emblazoned with the giant toothsome smiley face that proclaimed "Have a Psychotic Day!" This hysterical mantra derives from a button named Smiley that was formerly a pet rat belonging to the coolest (and most vicious) comic book character ever created: Evil Ernie. Before Ernie swung a U-turn and descended into berserko madness, he was merely another psychologically wounded schoolboy named Ernest Fairchild who was forced to deteriorate within the twisted confines of orphanage hell. After a brain transplant experiment gone awry, Ernest met a lethal demise that actually resulted in his subsequent rebirth as an undead teen psychopath capable of telepathically controlling the dead with his mischievous sidekick Smiley... a button. Trust me, I could go on and on about this demented serial slaughterfest, but I'll save Evil Ernie's adventures in lunacy for another inappropriate time (church basement pancake breakfast, perhaps?) The point is, the hotness that is Tommy Castillo was the coolest part of the convention, hands down. He sketched up a storm, cracked a couple jokes, and his artwork must be seen to be believed. He has since moved on to a plethora of other pen & ink projects that have mostly swept Ernie & Smiley into the dreaded dustpan of comic oblivion, but they still remain my favorite arcane duo of all time, mostly in part because of how much I enjoyed that threadbare t-shirt my friend used to rock like a proud uniform. Every time someone robotically moans "Have a Nice Day" and clearly doesn't mean it, you wanna take a wild guess at what I'm tempted to say in return?

Oddballs & Endcaps

The Bionic Woman (Lindsay Wagner) was there, as was Painkiller Jane (Alaina Huffman). I never did catch a glimpse of Reverand Steve Newlin (Michael McMillian) of True Blood fame, which really grinds my gears since I have been yearning for a glimmer of insight into the mind of the anti-vampire zealot whose influence has inspired many Karate-chopping corpse attacks ushered into action by a shirtless Jason Stackhouse. GearHead writer Dennis Hopeless was also in attendance, who I was surprised to learn is wed to Jessie Hopeless, the gloriously kickass superhero artist who designed and inked the strutting peacock tattoo perched atop my right arm.

cataleptic calisthenics

(Or, more accurately, fond memories of grades 7 thru the rest of my junior and senior high school existence in which I conveniently skipped co-ed sports bra hell and jockstrap misery on a regular basis in favor of alternate nonconformist acts of pop-&-jocularity).

Bowling night commences this upcoming Wednesday, and you better slow your roll to a screeching halt when it's my chance to twist the wrist, because my personal rulebook explicitly states that my lane is the second-born lane of triplets, meaning I can roll a tornado right over your alley any time I sees fit and neither of my congenitally fused linear kinfolk can bump their gutters about it because, well, it's THE RULES.

That being said, it has been brought to my recent attention that my athletic prowess is comically nonexistent at best, downright fictitious at worst. To which I say... the fuck? Seriously folks, I can Crip-walk on ice skates and practice Kung Fu moves in the shower like I'm David Carradine sans soap-on-a-rope. (And by practice Kung Fu I mean invoke peaceful meditation between shower spigot and clitoral floweret. Ommmm-kay... Don't judge). But that's just not hunky-dory enough for some sportylicious booty-smackers who grasp and squeeze their fellow ball-handlers' hindquarters at head-scratching moments of gesticulatory excellence that far exceed the 12th grade, an age when most awesome people appropriately ditch their benchwarming duties in favor of new experimental pastimes, like smokin', sexin', and stealin', to name a few.

To all my draconian whistle-blowing naysayers, I have the following to declare: I'll stratospherically crush ya azz on a mini-golf course and combat you in a cosmic-bowl crusade to the finish, and when I do win, I vow not to be all IN YO FACE about it. Unless, of course, copious amounts of grown-folk brewskies and unsolicited douchebaggy companionship magically presents itself (and, let's face it, it always does). In which case, the previous statement is obviously no longer applicable.

Runners-up, polish off your tenpins and squish your ten (or so) toes into those lubberly bowling shoes decomposing nicely under your kitchen sink and I'll peep ya in your lanes!

did i do that?

Dear Diary,

It's approximately 3:45 a.m. and I just awoke to the supremely thick and unpleasant surprise of combing my digits through a fresh pile of warm cat puke. In the rural locution of Mr. Hank Hill, "whut in the cat's meow is goin' on here? Is this yer idea of some kinda sick joke? Dhammit, Bobcat."

Aside from my apathetic pussy showcasing a glaring absence of shame in her spew game, the sludgy sensation immediately brought to mind the kind of kooky kitty regurgitation fantasy that would so obviously take place in some deviant realm of Doctor Claw's mind after a sensuous M.A.D Cat muff-walloping, followed by one too many nights of forced viewings of Grimalkin Island on Talon TV. You just know how that nefarious fool likes to get down, masterminding oddball projector-style screenings of late night double-features starring his favorite frisky four-steppers while he slinks back into a one-handed recline in that creepazoid throne he commandeers in the shadowy chambers of his clandestine lair. Jeepers! It gives me the gobsmackin' willies just thinking about it.

Sorry, family. I may still be partially comatose as I clack blearily away at my glowing terminal in the dusky gloom of daybreak. Apparently, kitten puke-fugues can cause, among other hurt and confused feelings, frenzied Inspector Gadget flashbacks and possibly even a delirious craving for some Cantonese-style bargain-basement kitten chow-mein (yeh, that side-eye is for you, gato).

P.S. Please don't tell Pissy Galore I was talkin' smack about her triflin' ass on da innerwebz or she might go all Mr. Bigglesworth on me and claw my face off so she can make use of my assorted orifices to hoard her exotic collection of catnips, among other unspeakable sticky-paw sundries. She be a miniature treasure reservoir, that cat.

reel unhinged

Lately I've been trying to charge up my brains with a blitz of low-budget movie reels in an effort to fulfill my 2011 goal of becoming a more cinematically inclined bitch (thus escaping dreaded cable bills while simultaneously viewing bottomless bins of weird shit with the sole intention of smugly peppering my group conversations with irritating banter and cryptic one-liners that only other irritating people with limited social circles will pick up on, in which case we will then chuckle conspiratorially, and with one concurrent self-satisfied nod of our bloated heads we will have deftly concluded our complacent foray into any possibility of securing new playfellows). Now, on with the show...

Crazy Love - Directed by Dan Klores

Just... whoa. This unflinching documentary by Dan Klores explores the shockingly grisly and obsessive relationship between Bronx-bred hellcat Burton Pugach and cheesecake stunner Linda Riss. The extremely unpleasant and godawful testimony zooms in on the heinous Pugach and the unfathomable manner in which he chose to put the hurt on the ravishing Riss, a vivacious cub of only twenty years with whom the loathsome lothario promptly fell into a deep and pathological one-sided love affair. From the onset of the feature, I was downright drawn in frame after frightening frame by simply listening to the twosome account for their outrageous history with a pair of matching Bronx brogues. As the narrative began to transit through to the alarming apex, my senses were slugged like a shot of gunpowder tea to the dome after a 4 a.m. wake-up call. If you decide to go into this movie with no prior knowledge of the disquieting duo, I can guarantee you will be served a scalding hot slice of startling true-life drama that is so dreadful and vile and yet somehow even poetic that, like me, you might even squeeze out a confused tear or two. Don't miss this truly bizarre psycho-saga, especially if you have ever been compelled to remain in a relationship with someone who has vocalized a threat along the lines of if I can't have you, no one can. As the complex layers evolve, you'll recognize in Burt the boisterous, misunderstood but still altogether insane crackpot you may have once known. You'll shiver at the recollection of the wacky-in-love hoodwinker with the warped romantic ideology: the dark obsession, the profound loneliness, the inevitable crime.

I give Crazy Love high marks for the method in which Klores chose to direct this atypical love story: It shocks you with an unorthodox tabloid-style strangeness (with a dab of comedic diversion thrown in for good measure), not the archetypal spine-chilling schlock scariness that would have undoubtedly been an easier avenue to traverse. The archival footage whisked in with the wacko-whimsy score that endlessly loops throughout the flick winks at the tale's '50s-'60s timewave with playful peculiarity, so at least you're not totally quaking under your quilt by the closing credits, afraid to take a midnight pee.

Tune in tomorrow for a discussion of one of my new best-loved jewels of the Mexploitation multiplex. You know who I'm talkin' about, and you know he don't text.

roadtrippin'

Hey Boners! I need some snax 'n jamz'spiration for my impending roadtrip tomorrow. Six hours of high-voltage deviance, high-decibel Danzig, and some dope Doug Stanhope truth-spewin'. Oh yeah, don't forget the black coffee from Kum 'n Go that curiously tastes like BEEF. I'll be sure to (someday) fill you in on my thoroughly compelling discoveries in a state-by-state recapitulation. Til then...

What she said.

aphrodisiac attack!

Warning! Shameless slatternly self-promulgation ahead:

Check out this article I wrote for Examiner.com on what else? Aphrodisiacs in your cosmetics, of course!

Key in some comments, "like" it on Facebook, subscribe to my articles - this all helps me rake in, like, hella pennies.

And if by reading my article you feel tempted to obtain some of those beautifying inventions for yourself, click on the links provided and score them at my Amazon store.

Ok enough! Now grab an umbrella and make it rain already!

And like you even need to ask. Of course this is how I write my inspirational war paint testimonials. I just feel it adds a sense of comfort and support not often found in the standard recliner littered with stale strips of turkey jerky and ancient Dorito dust.

heartbreak cake

One Day: Mutual affection enfolds asphyxiating grasp over intertwined limbs; silky sunsets and solid gold romance supervene; intense re-christening ceremony commences: now we are Baby, Honey, Sugar, a veritable saccharine snowballing of confectionary epithets.

Some Day: Paroxysms of sobbing, my peculiar inamorato vaporizes...

my mane girl

Today I get to spend time with someone who is both lusciously foxy and endlessly entertaining. A pleasure to dish with and a dazzling babe of phenomenal virtuosity, she graciously bestows upon me the contents within her magical treasure trove: the gifts of coiffure, color, compelling conversation, and ice cold mutha-effin' 40'z. Oh, and did I mention her scissor swagger is the biz? This killer kitty somehow managed to brilliantly save me from a tragic haircut that to this day still gives me blood-curdling chills when I come across it in old photos right before ripping them to shreds. Ladies, unless you are a trained professional, don't even think about fashioning up some homemade kitchen sink Bettie bangs. You'll look unspeakably ridiculous, and I don't want to have to snag the snapshots to further illustrate why it's a bad idea.

So Jen, you know I've been having a brunette moment lately, but how do you feel about this look down here? Nothing too flashy, maybe just a few of the ends severed off.

xoxo kitty cat!

barnacles!

Life under the sea is far superior to anything up top. My sole and innocent intention on my trip to the Chinese Cherry Buffet was simply to maw down on a pangaea of divine deep sea delights, such as raw baby octopus, mussels, squid, shrimps, scallops, and sushi of all sort.

Beautiful and charming these succulent mollusks and their sucker-bearing tentacles may be, gorging out on brimfuls of briny smorgasbord delicacies was like a self-serve invitation to hell. Afterward, I waddled out of the joint clutching my roiling tummy like the gutless punk I am. Why is it every time I encounter a seafood buffet, my eyes light up like a twerked-out Lite Brite on crack?

As the sinister brood of saltwater crustaceans swimming around my stomach were plotting the rigors of some seriously fucked up poisonous death threnody, I managed to take a deep breath and remind myself that mermaids do this sort of thing all the time.

Sir Eats-A-Lot may have sagely warned my ass to slow down on the fetishization of these lip-smacking deep dive delectables. He might have told me to slow off on the sea cucumbers. The spicy bowls of tiny-fish stew. The wasabi-smothered seaweed mystery wraps. He might have been right. As it is, my mouth tastes like an aquarium, and just in time for Valentine's Day. Sufferin' seahorses!

The Eeyore of the deep sea. I feel your pain, bro. I truly do.