Wednesday, May 18, 2011
I got this the other day. I'm giddy over it. I'm in awe of it. It keeps me happy and excited and although the picture seems too dark and photographed poorly, you can right well suck it. Because this is a beautiful thing and that's all I have to say about it.
Well, I suppose this at least deserves a bit of a back story.
Got it at my favorite hot spot, Greg's Comics. Duh. It was in a box full of ancient Life magazines and, amazingly, actual stills from He-Man, Bravestarr and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Like, the literal still drawings used in the cartoons. I was assured they were legit, and if I cared to delve deeper, could find the exact episode they were used in. At this point, I feel I made a grave mistake by passing this up, because Lord knows owning a half shot of Michelangelo's head turned slightly left would make me for a helluva conversation piece. But I denied my desire and plowed deeper. The good stuff had to be at the bottom.
Found this, and it was worth it. Kinda tough to measure what's "worth it," but if you're like me, you'll gladly pay over twenty bucks for a piece of over sized paper so magnificently wrinkled and thin. It's a wrinkled and thin poster that has Indiana Jones on it, people. To top it off, it's in a bizarre language I'm not willing to google to find out. I'll stay ignorant and say Turkish, only because that sounds fancy. Hey, I have a movie poster from Turkey! Cool!
Thing is, I love the "Indiana Jones" series as much as the next guy, and can possibly even forgive the fourth installment in around thirty-seven years. Everything that was said, done, blown up and punched has SO forever been burned into my mind you'd half expect me to start wearing brown slacks and a bullwhip around my waist. You know, to hold up the brown slacks.
Growing up, these films were perfect. It boasted the greatest blend of adventure, comedy and life changing weird-fucking-moments. Face melting Nazis? A greasy, grabby hand pummeled through a dude's ribcage? All these things kept my imagination pumping and my dreams totally unsettled. I've kinda realized, through the years, that all of my favorite things have at one point made me want to shit my pants. Yes, kind readers, "Indiana Jones," and the themes and imagery throughout, have made me want to shit my pants.
And that's why this poster is my newest religious relic. Everything that has been built up inside me can be accumulated into an artifact that describes who I am, what I do and what I believe. This is that artifact. It is my little statue of a fat man that sets off a giant, tumbling boulder. It is my personal Ark of the Covenant, inconveniently stored in my apartment's living room. It is my three magical stones that get too hot to handle and are accidentally dropped into the alligator infested waters below. Don't worry, friends, because throughout the scuffle, one single stone is saved. And that stone is mine.
If you've noticed, it's not in a frame yet. Usually, I make it my first priority, but things are different this time 'round. Out of respect for it's holiness, the frame will be made of gold. If gold is unavailable, plastic and thick cardboard from a crafts store will be an acceptable substitute.
We're leaving for tour in a few days, and I'm filled with a warmth and comfort knowing that this will be at home waiting for me. If it could jump off my wall and surprise me with a plate of warm cookies as I walked through the door after a long and arduous two weeks, all the more better. Unfortunately, that won't happen, so I'll have to settle for Shakespearean re-enactments of "Temple of Doom" in the bathroom mirror and a whole lot of bragging. Usually, I never let a single soul into my living quarters, so it'll mostly be Internet or text based.
UR WALLS R BORING LOL.
Ahh, this is gonna be fun.
See you in two weeks!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
I don't know how to join the Brown Leather Jacket X-Men Club. But ever since I accidentally put together two members of the same superhero team side by side, I knew my Monday night took a dramatic turn. Imagination ran wild, theories were introduced, questions were asked. Why did Wolverine and Jean Grey both wear brown leather jackets? Did it equate to superhero superiority? Or was it related to their superpowers? No need to answer, because I assume it does and now I need a brown leather flight jacket and I need it now.
I must become a member of the Brown Leather Flight Jacket X-Men Club.
Brown leather jackets have always eluded me. They're neither cool nor uncool, riding a fine line between unnecessary and completely badass. The only time I could think of ever wanting a brown leather jacket was watching Kirk Cameron muck it up on Growing Pains and finding an over sized version in my older sister's bedroom, which I assume is Kirk Cameron influenced. It was covered in patches and fake Army badges, and completely left a bad taste in my mouth. These days, I can't warrant the need to own something so in-your-face. It's a weird statement to make, because a brown jacket isn't that weird, but it is kind of weird. Or maybe it just looks weird on me?
This, unfortunately, goes on my list of clothing articles I'll never buy. Yellow motorcycle gloves, a cowboy hat that doesn't make me look like an asshole and now this, you sexy, leather flight jacket, you.
But since I've noticed a definite pattern in my toys, I'm reconsidering my options. Why not just do it? Why not buy a leather jacket the color of beef jerky? You see, in some outstandingly bizarre way only I can comprehend, why not attempt to, through the ownership of a brown leather jacket, be one of them? ONE OF THE X-MEN.
Okay, looks pretty cool. I can get down with the "rough and rowdy" look. I've already got the slicked back greasy hair and the eyebrows the size of Snickers bars. . What I don't have is the build of a linebacker and blue jeans not ever ever. Wolverine, you win this round.
Probability of Owning Brown Leather Jacket at This Point: Not good.
I like the cut of Rogue's jacket, where the initial purpose of a jacket is replaced by looking cool and being really uncomfortable. No warmth, just style. My current jacket is kinda in this category, where chaffing is a natural occurrence and lifting my arms above my head is an impossibility. But at least I look good. In constant pain, but still lookin' good.
Like I said, this is pretty much my jacket, though, so I wouldn't be making that big of a leap in fashion. I'm feeling good about this.
Probability of Owning Brown Leather Jacket at This Point: Decent. If I were to personally take charge and dye my duds, I'd be money.
Probability of Creating and Crafting My Very Own Brown Leather Jacket: Yeah fuckin' right.
So what can I do? I've already looked online and swiftly realized how expensive jackets can run. Then realized how futile jacket shopping in Phoenix malls can be. And now I'm so over it. As is my normal plan of action, I'll stand down and just stick with my regular outfit. In my defense, there's a calmness in black. There's a beautiful safety in black.
So goodbye, my X-Pals, for I am not a worthy colleague. Goodbye, dreams of masterful heroics, superhero stardom and punching the total shit out of shit.
Goodbye, Brown Leather Flight Jacket X-Men Club.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Today's my lucky day, bitch.
"Willow" is, and forever will be, one of the greatest films I've ever seen. I'm not gonna relay the entire movie as a general intro, rather, I'll assume you've seen it, and if you haven't, get on that shit ASAP. If the above box is any indication as to what the film is about and what you're missing...c'mon. It's more than enough of a tease to get you to go see it. Two-headed monster thing, a guy dressed as Skeletor and Val Kilmer before he turned into Natalie from The Facts of Life.
So get on it.
I found and bought what you see there, with your jealous, tear-filled eyes, last Saturday afternoon, which is a true testament as to how I like to spend my Saturdays, and most days in general -- in a dark, dusty comic book shop.
We went to Greg's Comics, which has been mentioned numerous times before, and is now fully revealed to you, my adoring public. I hate the idea of keeping such a wonderful store under wraps, but I also hate the idea of you ruining my Secret Happy Store. Easily, the place can be described as a garage sale for the confused, disturbed and mentally unstable. It's walls and boxes and shelves filled with the most inane junk you could never possibly care about. But you do care. And then there goes next month's rent down the toilet.
I've always been unsure as to who's actually working the joint, but from what I recently saw, it was about six dudes sititing in the back, shooting the shit and eating fast food. It's insane to think they'd have six guys employed at a comic shop the size of a taco stand, but I love it.
Also, Greg's Comics is owned by a guy named Howard, which makes the entire thing even more wonderful.
Are you in love? I'm in love.
Growing up, I had a few of the little figurines, completely unaware there was more playsets and vehicles and accessories to be had. Oh, you know, like a fucking demon dinosaur. I always hated the figures (they were set on a stand, didn't move, yadda) but I would have LOVED to have owned this. Before I go on...yeah, totally wish I had some more figurines to re-enact what's going on up above. That kid looks ecstatic.
In the film, the fictitious land of Willow-World was infested with trolls. These trolls played little part in the general plot of the film, but were proud and proper in scaring the shit out of you. They looked like skinny gorillas, were unbelievably hairy and demonstrated a fine knack for evil acrobatics. They jumped around, screamed and terrified everyone in the theater under eighty-six years of age.
Anyway, they popped in and out of the film, were mentioned in passing and then, phenomenally, were led up to some seriously weird stuff. You see, in one of the big battles in the film, Willow does the unthinkable -- he knocks a troll into a bog of water. It was all in self defense, so don't worry, gentle souls. Now, apparently, water is the catalyst to unthinkable troll-horrors. And when water touched the greasy fur of that diseased troll...you better run for cover.
If all was well and right with the world, they'd turn into the bad/semi-cute versions of Gremlins. Most people can deal with that. No one is that scared of a lizard with a white mohawk. In fact, most people might even welcome it. But nope. You couldn't imagine what they'd turn into. Unless, of course, you imagined they turned into eight-legged penis whales. And then, of course, you'd be right.
There is no false advertising with the box. What you see is what you get. And what I got is glorious.
It's official name is "Eborsisk," a post-film jab at the not-so-hot reviews from top critics around the globe, or the US, I dunno. I'm gonna on the fly, here. Basically, Siskel and Ebert (mash the names together) got mad punked. And I really doubt they ever gave a shit.
Completely accurate with the film, you're presented with everything from it's red-chin-mouth to the hard sack of football flesh on it's gross head. Don't even get me started on those mysterious six hind legs, which doubles as a neat way for something that big and monstrous to move around to just absolutely disgusting you.
The film doesn't bother showcasing these hind legs, I don't think. So it really is kind of shocking me right now. I don't like lobsters, I don't like spiders and I certainly don't like this. It was in the water, Madmartigan was stabbing it, lots of hustle and bustle going about and around to notice such details...if those details were even presented in the first place. Point is, I'm now even more repulsed by this thing than ever before. I hope my Rancor eats it.
To add fuel to the fire, it's back is covered in a bristly, brown moss. Again, this is something that isn't necessarily advertised, but I sincerely doubt they'd want to go ahead and add pubic back hair to the fold.
Also, note the purple hue. It reminds me of grapes and old ladies legs. Neither one particularly excites me at the moment, but I'm sure will make it's unique mark in the time to come. Amen.
Conclusion: I've inherited a masterpiece of rubber and plastic. It might not look to be that great to some, but for me, I'm the luckiest asshole in the world right now. I either have absurdly low standards or am just really that into...well, that. That animal abomination. That sack of troll-turned-dildo. Man, I love that thing.
Double Conclusion: It looks great on my desk and is even better looking on my nightstand, where me and my Eborsisk can read together before bedtime. Reading lulls me to sleep. Is that weird?