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...

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.

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.

i love you, jean grae

How's everything in the pimp business?

1-900-Grustlin'

I am one of those chicks that apparently lacks the ability to make a long-term commitment to a 9-5 grind. I have made some creative career choices over the years and my multiple personality-suffering résumé belabors this point. I've been collecting paychecks since I was sixteen, and now some ten years later, I can cross off cocktail waitress, cubicle queen, kid wrangler, motel cleaning goddess, retail guru, phlebotomy vamp, porn peddler, dildo expert, librarian and data entry diva, not to mention myriad placements in temp-job hell, off my list of gigs worthy of pursuing (and hopefully not revisiting). That being said, one hustle that has always appealed to me is that of Phone Sex Artist, à la Judy in Spike Lee's Girl 6. Imagine if retro telephones in shades of periwinkle and Pepto-pink truly did rain from the sky and Naomi Campbell actually had the decency to take over your heavy breathing while you smoked a joint in the ladies room. Working from home would take on a whole new meaning as you simply yawn smutty clichés to sex-starved hucksters whilst fanning stacks of bills over your freshly polished fingernails as episodes of Dynasty play out on your newly acquired flat-screen TV. I suppose I always have had an irresistible attraction to smutty romantic dramedies that glamorize the sex trade industry. Who do I have to call to get hired already?

Here's a sleazy assortment of phone sex jams to inspire lusty language:

Love Thirst - Jean Grae

Naughty Girl - Beyoncé

Lovely Lady - Kool Keith

Black Shampoo - Wu Tang Clan

Money Make Me Come - Rick Ross & EbonyLove

I Will Take That Ride - Betty Davis

Darling Nikki - Prince

AA XXX - Peaches

Video Phone - Beyoncé

Nasty Girl - Vanity 6

Hot Spot - Foxy Brown

Pussy, Money, Weed - Lil Wayne

Sex Shooter - Vanity 6

Tennessee Slim Is The Bomb - Joi

Hello Operator - White Stripes

On The Hotline - Pretty Ricky

High Price - Ciara

Strangers - Portishead

Caress Me Down - Sublime

Splash Waterfalls - Luda!

Discipline - Miss Janet if u nasty

Erotic - Keyshia Cole

Hardly Wait - PJ Harvey

"Uh huh... 36DDD... Of course I'm rubbing them..."

bad bitch # 1: beyoncé

Well, Valentine's Day has come and gone and I'm in a bit of a sentimental mood. Let's gush! Anybody who knows me knows that Beyoncé is my Queen. She is radiantly electric and over the top glamorous, two qualities I can appreciate in my #1 bad beyotch. This gal is a do-it-all diva to the max: She sings hit songs in a devastatingly hypnotic mezzo soprano, designs alluring fashions, and vamps it on a regular for modeling gigs such as L'Oréal. She even emulates famous broads like Diana Ross (lol @ her performance as Deena Jones in Dreamgirls... what. the. hell.) and Etta James (or. something...) Anyway, I got some hot off the press news: If you haven't already checked out the soundtrack to Cadillac Records, then get to steppin'. It was an unexpected delight to discover this collection of gems inspired by Etta James and interpreted by Queen B, especially after the double disappointment of the double disc Sasha Fierce. You know, the record I was HIGHLY anticipating practicing my painstakingly choreographed Destiny's Child dance moves in front of the mirror to, but turned out to be an epic hardcore suckfest. As an obsessive Beyoncé stan, I cannot express how deep my hatred for If I Were A Boy and Single Ladies (Put A Cock Ring On It) goes. On the other hand, the song Hello not surprisingly does it for me, as I easily geek out to songs with a showtunes-vibe. I hope the next record Bey drops will be in the same vein as Dangerously In Love, a truly superb album filled with old-school R&B diamonds and practically zero zirconia (we won't discuss Signs, mmkay?) Top three jams off the Dangerously In Love record: Be With You, Hip-Hop Star, Baby Boy

Here is a magical treasure from the Cadillac Records release entitled All I Could Do Was Cry. Don't sleep.

dapqueen cinema: flick i dig

Nothing matches the magic of watching a motion picture in the theatre. Today I got high off the aroma of hot buttered corn, slurped a turbo gulp, munched out on the tranny-fat snacks I smuggled in past the brood of unsmiling teenagers at the ticket rip-off booth, and leaned back to a hot sizzling cheese-atrical motion feature presentation called The Wrestler. This badass slice of cinema stars three rad movie stars I love, acting the roles of three timeless characters I never tire of: 1) Mickey Rourke as the fantastically delightful Randy "The Ram" Robinson, a kickass deli employee by day and superstar pro-wrestler by night; 2) Marisa Tomei as Cassidy/Pam, the stripper with the heart of gold and the yabbos of Betty White (and one badass bitch for shaking it to Lil Wayne in a greasy Jersey tittay bar) and 3) Evan Rachel Wood, bringing it in yet another tearjerker performance, this time as The Ram's emotionally distant, abandoned lesbian daughter Stephanie. Motorcycle Boy aka Mickey Roids obviously has insane amounts of charisma and athletic finesse, but it's his ability to express the downtrodden underdog we can all empathize with that really sets my coal black heart ablaze. If you're in the mood for a grimy sports drama mixed with powerfully emotional metaphors about the strange and sad plight of a sacrificial ram called Randy, then this is your joint.

Pros: Gory wrestling footage, groovy glitter spandex outfits, sweet bleach blonde weave, Jersey accents, hot soundtrack (Ratt, Scorpions, Quiet Riot, whaaat!!!)

Cons: Zilcho, buddy.