A Rusty Nail Part II

In between Last Man and I Am Legend was the 1970s attempt at the apocalypse, Omega Man, starring "C-Dog" Heston, of course, but this one didn't give me nightmares. Oh wait, yes it did: the part in which he watches Woodstock over and over and over again, mouthing the hippies' lines word for word. Shudder.

In I Am Legend, the film Will Smith watches over and over is Shrek, and the one foodstuff he saves in his freezer, bacon. He attaches these memories to his absent family, as with the character in the original novel and film. But as you would expect, the setting is NYC (not LA) and Smith won't leave "ground zero" to explore the possibility of other survivors. Moreover, the film is ruined by bad CGI by once again inserting smooth, shiny surfaces where there should be dark, porous ones. A says that we will look back on the CGI era the way we do cheap color of the 40s and 50s with its garish pinks and greens.

I will say that there are a few poignant moments that give new meaning to the word "loneliness" and an excellent nod to Romero's positing of a "talented 10th" of zombies (well, vampires--they're called "hemocytes" actually) who start to think for themselves. Overall, however, none of the three films dared touch the theme running through the novel about the "lewd and lascivious" female vamp-zombs who attempt to lure him outside by strip-tease and masturbation. In I Am Legend, Smith experiments on a female hemocyte, and one might as, why her? In the novel, the question is given an explicit answer, and it's not pretty (though not necrophilic either).

I also saved myself another restless night without sleep by turning to another fundamentally amazing text, Blade Runner: The Final Cut. The audio is in 5.1, the transfer is sharper, and more gore was added (put back in--it was originally taken out); the bad stunt doubles and continuity problems were nixed completely. However, the accompanying documentary, Dangerous Days, was a nerd's delight! Sound the neeeeeeerd hornnnnnn. Three hours looooooooog! Bring your Hot Pockets and Gatoraaaaaade. You get to see screen tests of other actors trying out for Pris and Rachel--with the exact same lighting, smoke, and blocking!!! <---that's real enthusiasm, not sarcasm). Watching it has the odd effect of suggesting other replicants are "out there."

The most fascinating part of the doc was actually a socio-historical one: why did it fail at the box office during the summer of 1982? Because Reaganomics promised hope and happiness, not dark dystopia. Guess which film made the most that summer? E fucking T!!!! I remember that summer so well because everyone was crying over ET--I mean everyone. Oh and here are some other films Blade Runner had to compete with that summer: Beastmaster, Conan the Barbarian, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Poltergeist, Star Trek II, Rocky III, The Thing, and Tron.

To conclude by reiterating CGI sucks (except in Buffy, in which it has a campy effect that actually heightens suspension of disbelief). As one of the producers of (the new) Battlestar Galactica series relates, "We often just say to the CGI people--give it that 'Blade Runner' look, and they know exactly what we mean." Ironically, there is no CGI in Blade Runner--it's all in-camera effects. We truly are ruled by computers and robots these days. The replicants have won:

Underneath Every Hippie is a Psycho

John Popper of Blues Traveler was arrested for speeding (111) and according to Yahoo News, "Inside the black Mercedes SUV, officers found a cache of weapons and a small amount of marijuana...A police dog searched the vehicle, finding numerous hidden compartments containing four rifles, nine handguns and a switchblade knife. Authorities also found a Taser and night vision goggles."

I had to endure years of my so-called friends telling me that Blues Traveler and Spin Doctors, etc. were somehow a continuation of hippie music and thought. Both bands were so obviously bland bar-bands. The only new hippie band was Phish, who, no matter if you liked them or not, had a clear sense of roots and influences: look at how many older musicians deigned to join them on stage. I never made fun of Popper's weight, and his harmonica playing is phenomenal (even though I don't like it--one still must admit skill), but I always knew that this band had nothing in common with hippies.

I sound as if I'm trying to argue for authenticity, of "true" hippies. Well, in a way, I am. Popper and Hitler Fudd are both examples of hypocritical redneck assholes who would get along better with Ted Nugent than with Martin Luther King, Jr. The rest of the hippies liked to party and talk about how the "ocean water makes love to the sand" and how "you're over there and I'm over here, but we're not separate, you know?" But there were some who moved beyond the "Like Father Like Son Like Hell" mindset and criticisized the social institution of marriage (beyond the misnomer "free love"), the practice of war, etc. I don't know who they are, and I don't know what they did, but I know they existed. In 1967 I would have been one of them. When The Doors were banned from Woodstock for being too "dark" for flower power, I would have ripped up my ticket. Eventually I would have become a punk, I guess.

I love that the real world and the world of TV and video games are so completely separate for me. Fuck Baudrillard. In Grand Theft Auto I blow suckas faces off. In the real world, I do not even own a gun or care to shoot one or hide one in my secret "weed compartment." Dumbass.

Hippie-Goddess

This is a blatant attempt to outdo Cait's discovery of beautifulagony.com, which challenges many conventions and even raises the question as to whether an orgasmic face is "porn." I offer hippiegoddess.com, which was linked from a site that was linked to beautifulagony. No one can deny that women are the true inheritors of the earth, that each woman embodies Gaia--in her groin area especially. Last summer's dealings with Hitler Fudd have taught me that I must be more tolerant of alternatives to the "norm" of shaved/bleached/siliconed porn, and this is it! Who among us wouldn't cherish their "old lady" if she were a hippie goddess? She would provide me, as a man, a timeless and spiritual link to all other women throughout time. She is the vessel through which I, the male principle, or "lingham," redeems, renews, and refreshes himself. We compliment each other like yin and yang, from time immemorial. See her dance! Heat the drums! She is calling me. What? What's that? I hear you! Yes, we shall dance with the wolves in the moon-shadow of your unshaved vagina! I hear...I hear...dumh...dumhn...DUHM....dum..ta-ta dumh...duhm....duhn....