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Best New Music BEST NEW MUSIC SHINE Gentley Insane rock alternative pop What a great name for an emerging group! 'Shine.' This is exactly what this quartet does, they shine - and blindingly so, this group is making some decent waves in the music scene, and it isn't surprising with the talent they've got. If the music doesn't reach you, then the lyrics will, especially when delivered by this prodigious vocalist! They will leave an indelible impression somewhere within your subconscious, and you won't realize it until you find yourself humming one of the songs from the disc! Shine is: Marnie Anderson (vocals), Jeff Fairbank (electric, acoustic guitars, backing vocals), Neil Bell (bass, backing vocals), and Matt Pavan (drums, percussion). Singularly, they are talented, together they are fantastic. Site: www.shinemusic.ca Samples: music.yahoo.com GooGoo Dolls Better Days rock alternative accoustic Early in their career, Buffalo natives the Goo Goo Dolls were frequently dismissed by critics as mere imitators of the Replacements; however, the band refined and mainstreamed their sound enough to become of the most popular adult alternative rock bands of the latter half of the '90s, selling millions of records to audiences largely unfamiliar with their inspirations. That's no knock on the band either their music simply improved in craft and accessibility as the years progressed, and radio happened to be receptive to what a decade earlier would have been considered collegiate power pop. Thus, the band landed two huge hits with the acoustic ballads "Name" and "Iris." The Goo Goo Dolls were formed in Buffalo, NY, in 1985 by guitarist / vocalist Johnny Rzeznik, bassist Robby Takac, and drummer George Tutuska Site: www.googoodolls.com Samples: music.space
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Pimp Junta My Thoughts on Feet January 4th, 2006 by John Brownlee I’ve often heard girls say that they judge men by their shoes. That women pay so much attention to the feet of a man has never made much sense to me. This is like judging a man by his armpit. Actually, it’s worse – I’ve seen the attractive armpit or two in my time. But what are feet if not mottled, misshapen clumps of flesh crammed into reeking coffins of leather? Feet are what your hands would look like if all the bones in them were repeatedly broken every six weeks with a brick. Disgusting. Such is my loathing of the foot that there’s only two types of girls I would never date. One: fatties. Two: those who paint their toenails. Girls - painting your toenails is like applying lipstick to your anus. Don’t do it. The Chinese, with their foot binding, had the right idea – minimize these revolting appendages to offset evolution’s blind, ignorant fondness for them. Because of my revulsion, I try to pay as little attention to my feet as possible and so, over the years, I have developed a rather hardy set myself. Whether it was walking barefoot through a foot of snow to my neighbor’s house as a youth, or shrugging off the spray of gore resulting from stepping on a piece of jagged ceramic – the end result is a steady regime of consistent abuse has resulted in their near nigh-invulnerability. To me, shoes are a social nicety which I resent. Coming home in the evening, my greatest joy is to kick off the sweaty foot coffins and give the boys some air. Like my future wife, I am happiest both barefoot and in my kitchen. The other day, I was walking home in what was once a chic pair of black leather loafers when I passed a shoe cobbler. This caused me to ruminate and look down at the poor puppies below my ankles. The left shoe had a large gash in the side. In the hollowed heels of both, numerous trapped pebbles and tiny glass shards rattled. The soles, partially disconnected from the shoe proper, made exasperating farting-like noises when I walked. Unlike underpants, I tend to wear shoes until decomposition. But I decided to go in and see if all these pedimentary traumas could be repaired anyway. The cobbler assured me that they could be if only I were to leave my shoes with him. So I made what I thought was a common-sense decision: I took off my shoes, handed them to him, and began walking the five minutes back to my house in my socks. Within fifty yards, I’d already been stopped by the Gardai. “Ey! Wud’s oll dis den?” the copper ejaculated, pointing down with his walkie talkie at my shoeless feet. I scowled up at him defiantly. Recently, I’ve felt the Dublin police have been getting too big for their britches. I blame the uniform change: previously, every member of the Dublin Gardai wore a uniform comprised of khaki and puke green, overlaid with a fluorescent traffic vest. True, it was attire more appropriate for a parking garage attendant than a metropolitan enforcer of law and order, but the police at least walked around looking suitably abashed by the trouble they were causing you , the criminal. That’s the way it should be. Now, though, they have imported all their police uniforms straight from Paris and walk around with a pompous and lugubrious impugnity. This has caused the members of the seedy Dublin underworld to christen them “Potato-humping frog bacon”. “What, it’s illegal to walk around without shoes in this ridiculous Mickey Mouse country?” I exclaimed. He scowled and started jabbing me with his thumb. “Led’s see yer passport.” I didn’t have my passport on me, so I was dragged away to Gardai headquarters, yelping Rodney king quotes and the phrase “Five-Oh, yote!” over my shoulder the entire journey. These utterings failed to find cultural resonance. Anyway, it’s a long story, but the slippery slope, one thing led to another, and several savage beatings in the Rathmines Gardai station’s basement later, it turns out that, as an Irish citizen, you can come within a hair’s breadth of being deported for not wearing shoes over here. So next time The Economist lists Ireland as “the best country in the world to live in”, I hope you all remember this little anecdote. Posted in Personal | 4 Comments » -- Guest-Blogging at the Consumerist January 3rd, 2006 by John Brownlee In case any of my readers (mostly comprised of my relatives, some Boston friends, three ex-girlfriends, a couple of anonymous AOL IM acquaintances who believe my profile-stated interest in pipe-smoking to be underworld slang for homoerotic fellatio, and Dr. Derek Smart, PhD) are interested in paparazzing my Internet fame: I’m (paid!) guest-blogging over at The Consumerist this week. I haven’t really read it yet, but it’s some sort of anti-corporate, pro-consumer website from the Gawker guys, who also do the (much nicer looking) blogs Gizmodo , Lifehacker , Fleshbot and others. My stint posting snarky news criticizing major corporations will be especially amusing to those close friends who have ever listened to me drunkenly defend major corporate hegemonies. You can tell my posts because they are the ones overusing adverbs. As an added note, my first day blogging over there netted me my first quote ever in the New York Times . The only problem? They attributed it to the totally wrong guy. The italicized part is what John Brownlee actually wrote : Mr. Johnson, who previously edited Gizmodo, another Gawker site, also highlights consumer-oriented news nuggets, funny pictures and shopping tips - all with the same snarky tone that characterizes Gawker properties like Wonkette and Defamer. This week, he posted an impassioned plea for more imaginative advertising because “the loud, braying ubiquity of advertising pretty much invalidates it without any effort on my part.” He added, “I don’t notice advertising anymore, unless it is advertising that somehow makes my life a little more surreal, or stupid, or silly, or magical.” So update your future editions of “Notable Quotables” accordingly, guys. Posted in Personal , Internet | No Comments » -- Metro Must Die! January 3rd, 2006 by John Brownlee Years back, I had a feud with the Boston Metro, a free daily newspaper that alternately constipated then squirted out of bowels of the Boston subway system. I hated this paper, not just for its abominable journalistic qualities, but also because it transformed what had once been a pleasant morning commute into an Indian gauntlet. Daily, I was battered by the greasy, rolled up rags clenched in the flailing fists of the thousands of oddly shuffling pimps, hobos and hustlers that formed the Metro’s sleazy newsie constabulary. Within a month of the Metro’s inception, there wasn’t a single bus station restroom not using the Metro for toilet paper; not a single gutter unstuffed with the Metro’s soggy literary discharge. Every bum, every brown-toothed transient, every deinstitutionalized lunatic soon found employment in the Metro armada harassing innocent commuters with the circumcised foreskin of journalism proper. I once paid one of these bums fifty dollars never to try to hand me a Metro again. He took my money, then gave me two the next day. If you were riding the Orange Line on December 2nd, 2001 and wondered what the wet lurch you felt between the State Street and Downtown Crossing stops was… mystery solved! The violence I wanted to inflict upon the Metro soon took a literary turn. I wish I had a copy of the letter I once wrote to the Boston Metro, but it wasn’t safe to keep lying around. If a single atom of brain whizzes around the inside of your skull, reading this letter would cause that atom to split, like a cerebral Hiroshima. The only place safely expose its radiation was in the ntellectual siberia of a Metro staff writer’s mind. But could even the leaden brainpan of a Metro staff writer contain the explosion? I copied every email address I could find off the Metro’s website, then I took my laptop to a cafe across from their headquarters. From the vantage of a window seat, I pressed “Send”. Imagine putting a thousand water balloons filled with cow’s blood in the microwave, then turning it on. That was what I thought was going to happen. I expected to hear a series of dull pops from across the street, quickly followed by a tidal wave of blood washing down the oscillating waterfalls of the front steps anemone-like brains, squidy eyeballs and small barques made of skull shrapnel. Needless to say, that didn’t happen. Luckily for them, the lack of that single atom which would have allowed my wit to start the necessary nuclear chain reaction was missing from the vacuum of their minds. Employees of the Metro: mentally retarded Supermen, hovering far above the earth by dint of their helium-filled heads, and when they drool, it rains. It wasn’t a total loss though. The letter soon became immortalized amongst my friends and acquaintances, all of whom hated the Boston Metro as much as me and amongst whom I privately railed for years about the cheap no-brow rag. In response to their imploring, I distributed the letter to a select few, but only every fourth word. Even so, these friends began reporting nose bleeds, detached retinas or the sudden ability to smell colors. One friend who accidentally pieced the entire letter together by joining his copy with those of three others suddenly found himself in a Cthulhu-like dimension where strange chthonic fish made of ectoplasm tormented him for eternity. It seems to me that the Infinite Monkey Typewriter project should be concerned less with reproducing the works of Shakespeare and worry more about accidentally reproducing a certain letter from Mr. John Brownlee to the Boston Metro, dated April, 2002. Because here’s what’s going to happen to the monkey who accidentally manages to type it up, in rapid succession following the first millisecond of the letter’s recreation. First, the monkey will turn sentient; second, it will be able to speak English; third, it will scream “Oh my god!” as it starts pulling ropes of its own intestines out of its ears. Jane Goodall meets Lucio Fulci, man. But that’s incidental to my main point. Eventually, I realized my intellectual duel to the death with the Boston Metro wasn’t going anywhere. Sure, the wit of my letter was pretty powerful. It had even killed a few people. But not the people it intended. It was like trying to shoot a ghost with a bazooka. Whoosh, and then the Catholic orphanage behind the ghost suddenly explodes. Only innocents were being hurt. So I did the only thing I could do to stop the conflict - I fled the country and moved to Ireland. It’s been a good four years. But today, as I was walking into town, a filthy hobo in a crisp blue blazer approached me, hacking madly. I tried to avoid him, as I imagined that he would soon begin blowing a large black bubble from his mouth, which would actually turn out to be one of his lungs. But he veered in my direction. The glaucoma of one of his eyes began shivering like the undercooked white of a fried egg; the other rolled crazily. I tend to get a little panicky when I’m trying to avoid someone fast approaching me. In my confusion, I rigidly pressed my arms up against my ribs and began effetely fluttering my hands next to my hips. I also squealed and spun in a circle a bit. This didn’t work: next thing I knew, the hideous transient was upon me and (using a mottled paw with a tell-tale brown streak across the blade of the palm) had pressed something gray and soggy between my hands, like a sheath of rotting flesh. I knew what it was before I even looked down. “Dublin Metro, read oll abood ib…” he croaked, then walked off, hysterically screaming his laughter into the sunrise he rigidly fixed with his one dead eye. Some brief highlights of today’s issue of the Dublin Metro: * * * 22 stone (that’s 308 pounds, or 140 kilograms) 12 year old congratulated by the Metro for dropping 42 pounds. The Metro is relieved he will not have to staple his stomach. * * * A serious page long interview between the Metro and a professional astrologer. Here are some tasty quotes: “Lots of big companies use financial astrologers.” “I got my qualification [as an astrologer] from the Faculty of Astrological Studies. I did a basic certificate, then a two-year diploma.” When asked how astrology works: “… it’s a mystery.” On quantum physics: “Quantum physics is all about things making patterns - fractals you can draw.” Her explanation concerning incorrect predictions: “When I get it wrong - and this is true of every astrologer - it’s often due to people’s interpretation.” In other words, she’s not wrong, you are. * * * An ad starting with the question “Got drunk again?” * * * That was as far as I got before I thought that last one was less a question and more good advice. Posted in Personal | 1 Comment » -- Radio Psyence Belated Christmas January 2nd, 2006 by John Brownlee If Nat King Cole were still alive, I like to think many of us would pull apart his Christmas-crooning lips and perform King Kong’s infamous jaw-snapping fatality on him. But he’s a raisin of a crooner in the grave now, and frankly can not be blamed for being so timeless that he has become a nauseating holiday cliche. Anyway, now that we are about as far away from a reflux of Christmas music as one can chronologically be… hey, Radio Psyence phoned in a Christmas show two weeks ago! Posted in Music , Personal , Internet | No Comments » -- « Previous Entries Search Pimp Junta Author A little something about you, the author. Nothing lengthy, just an overview. -- Archives January 2006 December 2005 November 2005 October 2005 September 2005 August 2005 July 2005 June 2005 May 2005 April 2005 March 2005 February 2005 Categories Books (11) Double Posts (3) Films (17) Flotsam (31) Games (10) General (12) Internet (25) Music (13) Personal (47) Photos (5) Login Valid XHTML XFN WordPress -- Recent Updates My Thoughts on Feet Guest-Blogging at the Consumerist Metro Must Die! Radio Psyence Belated Christmas Kong!.. sucks Surprising Appearances in American Literature Being A Paid Escort for Christmas: Part Five Okay. I’m back. Disestablishmentarianist Thought Of The Day Breastless Pelvises RSS Entries Comments Enter your e-mail address to receive notifications when there are new posts
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CHUD.com - Cinematic Happenings Under Development 01.11.06 “Get the f*ck out of my office! ” - Lou Gossett Jr. SANGUIS MINIMUS! CORPUS ANIMUS! SATANI AVE! Pictures from Fox's 2006 slate - including the new Damien. THE LIST OF WHAT IS YET TO CUM What if you knew the name of everyone you would ever have sex with? WHO WILL BANG BOND? Bond girl casting underway! Could it be you? DVD REVIEW: THE BALLAD OF CABLE HOGUE Old Hogue's got problems, but he's still Russ' favorite. DAILY GRABOID 1.11.06 Be pure, be vigilant, be guessing! DVD REVIEW: LOIS & CLARK - SEASON 2 David enjoys this "chick-friendly" Superman. PEEK INTO PAN'S LABYRINTH Spooky new images from Guillermo Del Toro's latest! DVD RACK: GARFIELD AND FRIENDS - VOL. 5 Jeremy is down with the fat feline and his cohorts. LEAK LETTERS #31 Another letters column for you to ignore. DVD RACK: SUPERBOWL CHAMPIONS - SAN FRANCISCO 49ERS Bill and the once great team of the '80s walk down memory lane. DVD REVIEW: THE WILD BUNCH (2006 SE) Russ goes to mexico with a bunch of killers. CHECKING BACK INTO THE HOSTEL Splatter picture gets sequelized. SAM RAIMI GOES TO DISC WORLD Raimi gets deeper into fantasy with his next film. DAILY GRABOID 1.10.06 This is not your cousin's Graboid. DVD RACK: VENOM Ian gets bitten by mediocrity. DVD RACK: CABIN IN THE SKY Eileen sings nothing but praise. DVD RACK: MARTHA'S BAKING FAVORITES Bill cooks with America's sweetcon. DVD RACK: GREATEST SUPER BOWL MOMENTS Ian gets a nice dose of pigskin action. THE SPECIAL EDITION - 1.9.06 DVD: Makin' the world go 'round (eh, until Blu-Ray or HD-DVD that is). TRAILER: HARD CANDY How to use the internet to pick up sweet teen meat. ROSARIO DAWSON IS HOT And she's into comics. Literally. TRAILER: CLERKS 2 Kevin Smith's sequel works the counter. THREATENED BY COUGARS: THE MOVIE 24 will make the jump to big screens. THE LEGENDARY WESTERNS OF SAM PECKINPAH An American master gets his due on DVD. HE WATANABE IN A CLINT EASTWOOD MOVIE Eastwood's Japanese Iwo Jima film gets logistical. DVD REVIEW: RIDE THE HIGH COUNTRY Russ finds treasure in the Sierras. GRINDHOUSE: READ ALL ABOUT IT Tarantino and Rodriguez write about their next. SCREENING: UNDERWORLD EVOLUTION Updated with 2 more cities! A NICHOLAS RAY OF LIGHT FOR KAUFMAN Does Philip Kaufman still have the right stuff? GOING FOR BROKEBACK II Devin takes on the latest Brokeback Mountain controversies. DAILY GRABOID 1.9.06 Don't be annoyed, Grab the 'oid. DVD REVIEW: TERROR TRAIN 09.24.04 By Doug Healy BUY IT AT AMAZON: CLICK HERE! STUDIO: Fox MSRP: $14.99 RATED: R RUNNING TIME: 97 Minutes SPECIAL FEATURES: Trailer Like so many of you out there, Im quite a big fan of the 70s and 80s slasher films. Theyre the kinds of films that so many of us ages 25 to 40 grew up on. While there are few kids out there that could even sit though a great picture like The Seventh Seal , let alone understand and appreciate it, slasher films were often the kind of fun and exhilarating movies that although forbidden by most parents, found their way into the VCR when you had friends stay over, or when your folks were asleep. The mix of jump scares, bloody killings and inevitable nudity made some of these movies the forbidden fruit of film for many of us. Thats certainly not to say they are all classic films, or even that most of them are well-made. For every Halloween or Sleepaway Camp there were plenty of Slumber Party Massacre or Friday the 13 th Part 3D films to make sure the bar was held pretty low for slasher flicks. So where does Terror Train fit in the slasher film oeuvre? Well, youre obviously going to have to read on in order to find out (you didnt really think I would tell you in the introduction, did you?). Now we know why Diane Keaton wears gloves all the time. The Flick In order to properly set about the mystery of whos going to be killing lots of people later on in the picture, Terror Train opens with the inevitable prank gone wrong. The boys of Sigma Phi Omega fraternity are having a party and trying to get some the loser freshmen laid for the first time. Doc (Hart Bochner) convinces the pathetic virgin Kenny (Derek McKinnon) that his girlfriend (Docs, not Kennys) Alana (Jamie Lee Curtis) is ready to take one for the team. Of course, seeing all of Docs friends around him laughing into their jackets, we get that Kenny isnt going to enjoy this first experience. Alana doesnt quite know what shes getting into, but plays along anyways. I wont spoil what happens, but rest assured, Kenny gets embarrassed, lots of other kids show up to laugh at him and he goes crazy. Cut to a couple years later, and all the pranksters are now seniors, getting ready for the biggest party of their college years. Theyve rented out a train for New Years Eve to throw a huge costume party filled with shitty bands, cheap booze and loose trim. Alana is no longer with Doc, as shes still pissed off about the severity of the prank they played on Kenny. Apparently, Kenny was shipped off to a mental hospital, and she feels pretty bad about it. She has a new boyfriend, who also happens to be Docs best friend and is best friends to fellow Sigma Phi frat-whore, and current Doc play toy, Mitchy (Sandee Currie). "Quiet, guys! I think I hear a train coming" Were introduced to the line-up of stereotypes at this time as well: theres the black guy, Jackson (Anthony Sherwood) and the only other black person at the party, his girlfriend Merry (Vanity, before she was Princes cock sheath). Theres the jolly fat guy, the other jolly fat guy, and enough meatheads and blonde groupies to fill a Motley Crue concert. Oh, theres also the mysterious magician, played by a Perry Farrell-looking David Copperfield. This was the first warning to go off when I was watching the movie. As a general rule, I think that magicians should be offered up to Quetzalcoatl, but even that seems too nice for David Copperfield. What a smug prick he is. However, in this film he fits nicely, as his job is to play the smug prick of a magician. It works nicely. Theres not really much more to get into concerning plot; the party starts and people start getting picked off one by one. In an odd stroke of coincidence, everyone involved in the shaming of Kenny seem to be the ones on the sharp end of whatever pointy object the killer is using. Billy Shived was always the life of the party. There are generally two types of slasher film: dark, serious movies which are meant to scare you after youve left the theater, such as Halloween , and campy slasher pictures, that while offering up jump scares, are really meant to have fun and laugh with, such as April Fools Day . Terror Train really tries to be on the darker side of the spectrum, which makes sense when you have the scream queen of the era headlining your film. For the most part, this works. Directed by Roger Spottiswoode (of good films like Shoot to Kill and awful films like Stop! Or my Mom Will Shoot ), there are some tense situations, especially toward the end of the film, and the moving train setting provides a sense of claustrophobia, which always goes a long way in horror films. Jamie Lee is in typical form here, offering up lots of crying and screaming. Though there is something about her in this movie that doesnt work with me: shes not hot. While slasher films were intriguing to me as a kid, they cant compare to the loin-tingling passion I had seeing Jamie Lee Curtis on screen. I aborted more children onto the carpet in front of my parents entertainment center watching her in Trading Places than all the teen prostitutes in L.A. In Terror Train , though, shes got scraggly hair, nasty-looking teeth, and the pirate costume she wears to the party means that we dont even get to admire one of the greatest figures that God ever placed on this Earth. In fact, this movie has almost no random nudity. Theres a quick flash of some nasty cans, but thats about it. Gene Shalit's review - "New Year's Eve on the Terror Train? More like my clone is suave as hell! Oh, shit, that doesn't rhyme." Before you purists get on me, Im well aware that in 1980, the slasher film hadnt yet devolved to the point where it needed to have naked women in every other scene. I just feel it necessary as reviewer to let people know what to expect. Some people like the skin-laced horror film, and for their sake Im letting them know ahead of time that if naked women are important to their viewing pleasure, theyll be disappointed. The movie is not quite as obvious as that plot outline makes it out. For those who watch these types of films, and are paying close attention, the identity of the killer may become apparent to you about of the way through the film not bad considering the obviousness of some of its brethren in the slasher genre. The costume party sets up a realistic way of getting the killer into all sorts of odd masks and helps keep us confused, if only for a bit. Where was George W. Bush between May 1972 and May 1973? Shoveling coal on Satan's personal train, that's where. An interesting note: movies like this (at least those not directed by David DeCoteau) dont often have a homosexual undercurrent, but Terror Train doesnt shy away. Its pretty obvious that Doc would love to run away with his best friend, Mo. Not important to the movie, just a tidbit. I liked this movie even more than I thought I would. Its not a campy, laugh-as-you-go horror film, so dont be expecting that and I think youll enjoy it too. Its not as brilliant as the film it takes so many cues from Halloween but it is solid, nonetheless. 7.0 out of 10 The Look The movie is very dark, though this is done purposefully. Its a lot harder to figure the killer when you cant quite see whats going on. The transfer is okay, and purists can take note that contrary to rumors, Spottiswoode didnt add Ewoks to the scene in the snow. 7.0 out of 10 "Christ Morty, whatever happened to foreplay?" The Noise The music fades in and out sometimes, and the dubbing doesnt always match up with the speed at which theyre talking, though you can understand everything. 4.0 out of 10 The Goodies A trailer. 1.0 out of 10 The Artwork Jamie Lees visage and the terror train about to be stabbed by Gene Shalit. 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