Deadman/party’s favorite non-grilling holiday is just around the corner. Though there is probably not a prohibition on backyard BBQ’s on October 31st we would prefer to sit inside and be spooky. Or go to a bar and be spooky, just so long as we don’t have to run to a slew of sluts pretending that their sweatshop made stripper cast-offs are actually costumes. There should be nothing sexy about being a Ghostbuster. And this year we would also like to celebrate but punching the stupid accent out of Rob Zombie’s mouth.
It’s true, we were once Junior High-Schoolers and we loved “Thunder Kiss ’65“. We also loved jester hats and Crystal Pepsi. We thank him for those jams but these days the only songs with two notes we like were made by Germans in the 70’s and not by a bunch of living jokes about the 1990’s that happen to have great taste in movies. Of all the looks out there to steal, you decide on the Al Jourgensen? Picking on a rock star for their fashion sense hardly seems fair, especially when you are a decade or two removed from it, so let us discuss how much White zombie’s music stinks. Worse than a crust punk. And how about Zombie’s solo career? Stinks worse than a crust punk’s butthole. Knowing that a song like “Dragula” could sell just one copy of Hellbilly Deluxe much less take it to number 6 on the charts makes us here at deadman/party rethink our ban on genocide jokes.
As our somewhat loyal readers know, it takes more than just doing one thing poorly to make it to our dis-honor role (they also know it takes us forever to craft these posts) and even shlock that make us wish for an “All Nickelback, All the Time” radio station is not enough to make us put him up on the wall. It took a comment Mr. Zombie made about his sequel to Halloween finally set our blood a boilin’. He basically stated that his new film is a departure from John Carpenter’s because the characters in the original Halloween are flat (the quote can be found in that one Maxim with the hot girl on the cover in the Lube Pros on 27th and Lincoln, the newer issue has a bunch of girls dressed as sexy teletubbies for Halloween: Tinky-Wagina, Po-Tang, Laa-Labia, Dipsy). Flat! We cannot imagine what that even means coming from the creative juggernaut behind House of 1000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects. Two films about crazy clowns that kill people with their pyscho circus. Any juggalo could pontificate about their depth. How dare Mr. Zombie, of all people, call one the movie that he somehow lucked into having a chance to destroy flat! He should be thanking the God of Michael Bay reboots who is, we imagine, a ponytailed asshole in a BMW who figured out that he could make a bunch of money off of teenage boys by destroying what it means not to put everything on the table. And just in case you didn’t know, part of what makes John Carpenter’s Halloween so horrifying is the fact that the characters ring true, that they are not bipolar teenage girls that masturbate with crucifixes.
Rob Zombie is an asshole, a filmaker and an idiot. A mind numbing combination for those of us with any sense.
What in the fuck is this guy’s problem? We here at deadman/party had simply let him slip our collective mind because we thought he was just another flabby necked old guy behind a bunch of overrated movies until we were informed by an intern today that the Clone Wars movie (cartoon?) features some sort of mini Jabba the Hut who is talks with that pimp by way of New Orleans accent. We haven’t seen the Clone Wars (or anything else he made after The Phantom Menace ’cause it broke our virgin hearts) therefore, we cannot confirm that Jar-Jar Creole exists but it isn’t hard to imagine Lucas’s black-face tribute to the victims of Hurricane Katrina. This lead us to ponder the films of his that we had seen.
We skipped THX-1138 simply because we don’t care. All that comes to our collective conscious is a lot of white (something to figure throughout his whole career, har har). Next is American Graffiti, which was the pumping of lotion before the massive masturbation session the baby boomers have been having for the past thirty to thirty-five years. Excepting Harrison Ford this movie has really nothing to offer those of us born after 1960.
And then, The Trilogy. The Holy Trinity of every fat bearded asshole who keeps that other fat bearded asshole, Kevin Smith, making movies. It must be admitted that we have seen the set a number of times, and saw them when they were re-released into the theaters. Shoot, we were excited when they re-released them into the theaters, though none us had light saber duels in the ailes, nor did we clap when the Death Star blew up. Even though we like them, we are firm on the fact that they are not good movies no matter what you say and we know that all of the Yoda shtick is simply obnoxious semi-literate eastern pot smoke philosophy nonsense. Or the teachings of self styled “Buddhist Methodist.” But we walked out of those theaters pissed. We would have blogged about it if we hadn’t unloaded on the closest AOL chat room. Why in the fuck would you add that Disney song and dance number into Jabba’s palace? And why would you get rid of the ewok song? Most importantly, why would you take some of the very best special effects ever and ruin them with CGI? This is what happens when you take away the limits to an idiots imagination. Everything becomes dull.
In the middle of all this he teamed up with Speilberg to make some pretty kick ass adventure movies, but that’s no excuse for a pod race. And it’s not an excuse for what seems to be an unquenchable thirst for money ringing through the box office registers. Mr. Lucas owns half of the Presidio, what more could he want?
And then he made a bunch more bullshit that we didn’t bother to see. Really, who cares anymore? If it wasn’t for Raiders of the Lost Ark, we probably would have forgotten who the hell this guy is. Even renting something he has done lately is like taking home that 50 year old self-described ‘cougar’ that floats Sex and the City lines at you as you are trying to order a beer. We don’t care how hot she once may have been, she’s annoying, sad, pathetic and though you may want to go home with her for what promises to be a fun time with a whiff of nostalgia, you are going to find yourself deeply unsatisfied and wondering how that could have ever been good after it’s all over.
Ah yes, the auteur that is Mr. Soderbergh. His body of work is a pulped, grayish mass of half-baked political ideas, self-indulgent stylization and very attractive actors. Though the aforementioned could describe scores of directors who are given enough money to house homeless populations of minor American metropolises in order to put there masturbation fantasies upon the big screen, Soderbergh stands out in his particular combination of egomania and utter lack of talent.
Sure Oceans Eleven through Twenty are entertaining. Who doesn’t love watching famous people having a whole bunch of fun half-assing their way to millions of dollars? It was like a live action version of the “Celebs. Just Like Us!” section of People Magazine. But it isn’t to hard to imagine Joel Schumaker or Barry Sonnenfeld doing a comparable job (please excuse the overtly Jewish names, honestly the first two blockbuster directors that came to mind who have nothing to do with special effects). But who is willing to defend Erin Brockovich as anything more than a tampon ad crossed with a High School Civics class? Or Traffic as anything worthwhile at all? But “Hey!” you say, “He used different filters for each setting of the film! That’s Artistic!” Is it really? Are you in Jr. High?
Now we are not in the business of just shooting down anybody who happens to make a movie that we don’t like. It is Mr. Soderbergh’s staggering ego tempered by false modesty that puts him here. To quote, “The fact that I’m not an identifiable brand is very freeing, because people get tired of brands and they switch brands. I’ve never had a desire to be out in front of anything, which is why I don’t take a possessory credit.” Sounds like a pretty reasonable guy. Downright modest. Except when he says things like casting baseball players as themselves (upcoming film version of Moneyball) is the way “movies will be made in the future.” Just like in the future all movies will be released in theaters and HDnet the same day with the DVD version for sale four days later but no one will see them because they are pieces of shit. Also porn stars will star in ‘serious’ movies in the future, but as prostitutes because, after all, they are porn stars which precludes one from being anything else unless Mr. Soderbergh swoops down from his intellectual mountain and raises you up to the dizzy heights of HOLLYWOOD. Does he have a “normal people R people 2” t-shirt somewhere? Ignoring that, let us applaud a man who refuses to possess his movie, to resign himself to the background of what he creates, just don’t you dare try and ‘steal’ it from him by making an illegal copy or putting it on the Internet. Mr. Soderbergh, if you want to know the future of movies, you have found it. Downloading for free. Though in his case it is simply a waste of bandwidth.
We here at deadman/party are not the most fashionable of men (our knowledge is about as current as the copy of GQ they have at the dentist’s office) but we know enough to know when enough is enough. And we hope to throw Christian Audigier under a bus. Mr. Audigier is responsible for not only the Von Dutch trucker hat–accessory to the most annoying bitches of all time and one step away from the leather cowboy hat–he is also the man behind the Ed Hardy line of apparel abominations. Please understand that we are not the type of people to scoff at quasi high-fashion because we don’t work enough hours as claims adjusters to be able to afford it; nor are we the type that thinks that Rustler jeans and a GAP sweatshirt make a suitable outfit for a first date, we just find spending 85 dollars on a t-shirt mass produced by a ‘lifestyle brand’ sickening.
The Von Dutch cheese-grater, mesh-back or, as it is now commonly known, trucker hat is an interesting piece of American fashion. For a brief period in the early 2000’s it was common enough to see this hat on scummy types cultivating that ‘white trash’ vibe. Then, suddenly, the human elite that is Hollywood began wearing such hats with a patch that said ‘Von Dutch.’ Immediately every don’t-be-jealous asshole in America that could afford a $60 hat was wearing one. Eventually the hats found their way to TJ Maxx and the saturation was too complete even for those with more money than taste. Luckily Mr. Audigier’s bird-brain was fast at work, but rather than exploiting Kustom Kulture (and a man who hated money), he cleverly exploited Sailor Jerry’s Rum. So now every tanned asshole in $200 jeans made to fit over an adult diaper is sporting an Ed Hardy t-shirt. Unless they are a female tanned asshole, in which case they are sporting a sequined Ed Hardy t-shirt. If only we could send some sort of death tone to every bluetooth in America.
And the man himself, well he is proud to have ‘created’ (?) the trucker hat trend and the ‘lifestyle of street couture.’ Also, he is very proud of the over 5000 celebs that wear his trash. His website even has photos of all the people we admire for their contributions to human history (Liza Minelli, Brittany Spears, DJ Clue, Fergie, etc.) and a bunch of people we have never heard of (who are they? reality stars? celebrity gossip bloggers? people on VH1?) wearing his brands. The very idea that we would be so impressed by these arguments for abortion wearing Mr. Audigier’s trash makes us feel like screaming at a wall. This punch heard round the world will be for everyone who understands that more money does not make you a better person, it just amplifies how unjust it is for you to be breathing our precious air.
We at deadman/party got off on a bad foot (boot?) with Hulk Hogan. Mr. Hogan became a wrestling superstar by defeating Andre the Giant in Wrestlemania III and though we have never been big wrestling fans, we always preferred the massive size and wit of Mr. the Giant to Hogan’s flag waiving and vitamin taking. Still, the Hulkster’s hot guitar licks, association with Rick Derringer, and baffling “Hollywood” Hogan beard were enjoyable enough. Whether co-starring with Sly Stallone in Rocky III or a boat in Thunder in Paradise (this series provided the inspiration for our friends to form the much loved but nearly completely forgotten band Speed Boat and the Hulk Hogans, a musical ensemble with a man in a cardboard speed boat suit for a lead singer and three instrumentalists dressed as Hulkamaniacs), the Hulk’s earlier “acting” endeavors were good for a chuckle. Our distaste for Mr. Hogan is not a result of his exploits on the mat or previous work in movies and t.v., but rather his more recent entry into the reality television arena.
On some level, Ozzy Osbourne’s brood is to blame for the “you people in middle America think we are strange and evil but really we are a loving family” approach to reality television. Following in the footsteps of “The Osbournes” came a deluge of clones featuring such luminaries as Snoop Doggy Dogg, Gene Simmons, Dee Snider, and of course the Hogans. The main problem with “Hogan Knows Best” (aside from being almost completely unwatchable) is that the “we are really a loving family” meme falls pretty flat when the family in question is one platinum blonde disaster after another. Are we really supposed to buy Mr. Hogan’s overprotective, “no boys near my daughter” act when he stands idly by during her Maxim photo shoot or when she has a stripper pole installed in her apartment or he attends her Spring Break (SPRING BREAK!!!) foam party? Sorry man, the proof is in the pudding and in this case, your bikini-clad daughter is wrestling in the damn pudding.
Currently, Hulk is the star of “Hulk Hogan’s Celebrity Championship Wrestling” and although we have managed to avoid this show to date, we feel pretty confident that we aren’t missing too much and have seen enough of Screech, Danny Bonaduce, and Todd Bridges fighting (or doing anything for that matter) to satisfy our appetites for the foreseeable future. We are well aware that Mr. Hogan could probably snap each of our heads off like a dandelion, but we are still willing to at least attempt to tear our shirts off and punch him in the face.
Anyone that has spent any time at all in Wisconsin certainly needs to read no further than this: Brett Favre, more than any football player in history deserves to be solidly punched in his big dumb face. We realize that without close examination he may seem like a lovable guy; so loved that half of the overweight, drunk-driving(fifth time’s a charm!) morons who support the Packers are suddenly more inclined to follow the Jets because ‘you just gotta support Brett.’ But this does not speak to his popularity, rather this speaks to a colossal ego that has surpassed any notion of team. Then again, Mr. Favre has the good fortune to be a white athlete so it’s not an ego, rather it’s a firm knowledge of self-worth. He’s as real as Usinger Bratwurst.
If one looks at the 1991 Atlanta Falcons team picture they will find Mr. Favre strangely absent though he was on the roster. He couldn’t make it to his job that day because he was too hungover. Everyone has been there, right? Later in his career Mr. Favre admitted that he was a junkie of the prescription pain killer kind. But anyone who has had his or her wisdom teeth removed can understand the draw of the occasionally opiate. No big deal. And to be fair, it is what the athlete does on the field that counts, unless you are talking about the grit (GRIT!) that allows a man play a game days after his father dies and manage to beat the Oakland Raiders. That grit is everywhere. Or the absolute tenacity that allows one to play his whole career missing some intestines, not that anyone knows if missing a fraction of one’s intestines really makes a difference in any aspect of life other than the time it takes from ingestion to evacuation.
We will not deny that Brett Favre is a very good quarterback. He holds many prestigious records and, like Jim McMahon, Trent Dilfer and Brad Johnson, Mr. Favre has won one Super Bowl. Always the class-act, he laid down and gave Michael Strahan that single season sack record. Which somehow did not make it seem like a gift, cheapening the effort and making a record as much about Mr. Favre as it is about the man who actually worked all season to break it. And what of when he was shut out for the first time in his then 16 year old career? Again proving his mettle Mr. Favre stormed off the field without speaking to reporters, not because he was acting like a spoiled brat, but because he had to stoically go about mowing his own lawn or some other such activity that men do. And his indecision three years in a row as to whether or not he would return to football. Which was not only annoying, it was supremely unfair to the Green Bay football club that had been so supportive for his career. The Packers were not able to prepare during the off-season because they had no fucking idea whether or not the big baby would be back. For two years in a row. And then he retires the third, no, whoops, mistake, he’s back! Not a selfish man, not Brett. Simply a man that loves football soooooo much retiring or returning is all he could think about.
Not to mention the fact that word around Green Bay is that Sir Brett is a supreme asshole, or the fact that he has forced talented coaches and players out of Green Bay, or the fact that he can’t sell a shitty pair of jeans without a fucking Golden Retreiver or the fact that he used his charity as a platform for his retirement drama or the fact that the Jets did not make the playoffs yet again (and others are pointing some serious blame) or that he is not Peyton Manning.
To be honest we here at deadman/party love the early films of Mr. Seagal, the quartet of low-brow odes to masculinity that precede Under Siege. There is perhaps nothing finer than watching a grown man play pretend and then lay to waste ten men, not altogether or even two at a time, but ten men one by one by one. But we must punch this bloated sack of stupidity, though not for the low satisfaction of deflating a gasbag that thinks he is suuuuuch a tough guy.
A lifetime of self-mocking commercials made long after relevance cannot change how unspeakably awful an actor is. In fact, Mr. Seagal’s desperate pleas for acceptance (and attention) make him all the more disgusting. It isn’t that we do not appreciate self mockery, it just seems a little sour when the last twenty-three movies he has made–this is twenty-three out of a grand total of thirty-five–have gone straight to DVD. Certainly he did not feel so humble at the height of his career when he uttered, “I am hoping that I can be known as a great writer and actor some day, rather than a sex symbol.” Keep reaching for that rainbow buddy.
What may be more amazing than his failed attempt to emulate Orson Welles is how he shows “his deep love and care for others is exemplified in his commitment to do his part to make this a better world.” The above is taken directly from the Philanthropy page of his website, which is next to the page featuring his collection of “classics [and] some of today’s hottest axes” complete with a teenager’s bragging descriptions of just how rare each guitar is. He saved a puppy in a garbage bag thrown out of a car window in the movie where he murders somewhere in the neighborhood of 45 people in order to exact his revenge on the man who killed his friend, aptly titled Out for Justice. And he also made a movie in which he murders a bunch of people in Alaska for harming the earth. Not to be confused with the movie in which he murders a bunch of people for harming the earth in Montana and the other movie in which he murders a bunch of people for harming the earth in Kentucky. It is obvious that no one has a tighter grip on the teachings of the Buddha than Steven Seagal, except perhaps a stoned college student.
And besides being an accomplished martial artist, writer, director, producer and activist Mr. Seagal has also committed the greatest sin any actor can commit: claiming to be a musician. And not just any type of musician but a blues musician, if you can call this the blues. More surreal than a Fellini picture, the video was once described by an acquaintance as “R&B, or at least Steven Seagal’s version of it, accompanied by images of him marrying his Thai child bride.” Perhaps worse, his albums are entitled Mojo Priest and Crystal Cave, enough even to make the members of Ten Gallon Sack (every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday Night down at Snappers. Dollar Drafts on Tuesday!) blush. Anyone interested in knowing more can click here.
But before this turns into a book (or sutra, if you will) we must finally declare our intentions to attack him and punch him, not one by one, but as an editorial board for the first time in his life.