No, Scanners is a 1981 sci-fi horror film written and directed by David Cronenberg; one of Canada’s finest exports (right behind other notable Canadian exports like Arthur Sicard, the inventor of the snowblower, Conrad Bain, who played “Mr. Drummond” on the television show Diff’rent Strokes and, of course, Molson Beer.  And maybe ice hockey.  Yeah, ice hockey).  Also worth noting is the fact that this unmemorable film (just to clarify, "unmemorable" in my mind, does not exactly equate to something being "bad," because this film is actually quite good), spawned a series of horrible sequels and spin-offs, none of which involved the participation of Mr. Cronenberg.

Since I can hardly recall anything about the movie other than one scene; I can’t provide a detailed plot synopsis, but I’ll do my best to recap what I do vaguely remember.  So, in Scanners, there are a bunch of guys who have special “mind powers” (kind of like the X-Men, but without the tight, homoerotic suits) and they’re chasing a bunch of other guys with special “mind powers.”  I think.  Honestly, it’s all kind of hazy.  When I was growing up, I overindulged in using asthma inhalers and ever since then, my memory has been slightly impaired.  Fuck, sometimes I can’t even remember what I just wrote.  Fuck, sometimes I can’t even remember what I just wrote.

Anyway, the only other thing going for the movie is that it stars perennial “bad guy” Michael Ironside as the, uh…bad guy.  I love Michael Ironside.  Anybody who can play an amputee in two movies (that would be in Starship Troopers and briefly during the end-fight in Total Recall) is “a-okay” in my book.  I also appreciate the fact that his last name conjures up images of the late-60’s/mid-70’s TV show Ironside.  This show featured Raymond Burr as the titular character; a wheelchair-bound police detective paralyzed from the waist down who solved crimes by utilizing his wily brain.  This was fine if, say, Ironside was going after somebody who suffered from narcolepsy or if he was hot on the trail of a lethargic paraplegic; but pretty much everybody else could, you know, run away from the detective (actually, perpetrators could probably casually stroll away from Ironside and still be miles ahead of him).  He was like Sherlock Holmes, if Sherlock Holmes was old, portly and unable to walk.  Yep, that Ironside was a memorable show.

And while I’m on the subject of wheelchairs, have any of you seen the documentary Murderball?  It’s about a bunch of quadriplegics who play wheelchair rugby.  Now, these guys are scary.  Much scarier than an ancient, bloated, paralyzed detective. If they ever remake Ironside, somebody needs to hire one of these wheelchair rugby players.  Not only would the rugby guy be able to effectively chase down criminals in his modified wheelchair, but he could also hurl volleyballs at them.  Man, I’m full of exciting ideas today!  Gabe, you’re a genius!

What the hell was I talking about?  Oh yeah, Scanners…

Like I said before, Michael Ironside plays the bad guy and, in the only memorable scene in Scanners, uses his special “mind powers” to seriously fuck up a guy who looks like my Mom’s accountant and Dr. Phil all rolled into one.  And how does he seriously fuck up this guy?  Well, he makes his head explode…using only his thoughts!  Disturbingly, Mr. Ironside’s character goes into some weird trance where he, I assume, is sending very bad thoughts towards the guy who looks like my Mom’s accountant and Dr. Phil all rolled into one.  And, in order to simulate these bad thoughts, Mr. Ironside writhes and twitches in his seat, looking as though he is simultaneously getting a blowjob AND taking a dump.  It’s quite the bravura performance.

So, why is this scene so memorable?  Well, for one thing, it shows a guy’s head exploding!  What more do you want?  On average I witness, what…like three heads exploding a year?  That’s not too many. 

On top of this, I have a special relationship with this scene.  A relationship that began when I was about six years old.  You see, when I was a kid, my Mom would often take me to the movies.  And for reasons I’ll never know, just about every movie she took me to during the theatrical run of Scanners had the Scanners preview in front of it.  Every.  Fucking.  Movie.  And you know what the preview of Scanners consisted of?  That’s right…a guy’s head exploding!  This goddamn preview showed up so regularly that I pleaded with my Mom to not drag me to the movies anymore.  Finally I relented when some cheesy kids film made its way to my local theater and my Mom reassured me that there was no way in hell the preview for Scanners would be attached to it.

You can see where this is going, right?

Sure enough, as I was getting all comfortable in my seat, settling in and gnawing on popcorn, the Scanners preview came on.  I quit chewing my food.  My Mom gasped in horror.  As if in slow motion, the bucket of popcorn slipped from my hand and struck the ground, sending kernel guts across the sticky floor.  Then my Mom dove for me like a secret service agent taking a bullet for the president.  She shielded my eyes from the horror that pulsated from the screen.  But I could still hear the preview.  I could still hear the preview!

And the images had been seared into my mind’s eye; where they replayed in the darkness.

Thanks for scarring me for life, Mr. Cronenberg! 

O Canada!

Follow me or I'll make your fucking head explode!

With the season of ghouls in full swing, television stations have begun airing an endless barrage of memorable and unmemorable scary movies that have been collecting dust in their vaults for the past year.  Sometimes you’ll catch a gem, like Poltergeist.  And sometimes you’ll catch a half-polished goat turd like Poltergeist II: The Other Side.  And, God help me, sometimes you’ll catch a flaming piece of shit like Poltergeist III:The One Where Only One Actor From The Original Bothered To Show Up.  Basically, the original is worth your time, part II is worth ten minutes of your time, and part III can lick my nuts.

Do you remember Poltergeist?  Sure you do. It ‘s crazier than a bus full of retards and stars a bunch of people who ended up dying in strange, horrific ways.  Oh yeah, and it also costars that impish ball of energy Zelda Rubenstein (as a spiritual medium), who I believe is a para-midget; meaning she is “not quite” a midget.  As far as I know, the prefix “Para” roughly means “beyond or altered,” but as I just mentioned, I take it to mean “not quite.”  As in, Zelda Rubinstein is a para-midget (that is, she is “not quite” a midget).  I don’t exactly know where the cut-off point of being a midget is and where being a para-midget begins, but I can at least make an educated guess and, so help me, I’m making an educated guess that Zelda Rubinstein is, in fact, a para-midget.  Oddly enough, Zelda’s name in the movie(s) is “Tangina,” which, on paper, looks like it might be a condition that occurs in women who frequent nude beaches.

Anyway, Poltergeist is a memorable movie.  It has a freaky toy clown, a homicidal tree, a guy scarfing down a bad chicken leg and tearing the skin off his face, the guy who played Coach, the aforementioned para-midget, and a static television set that, all these years later, is still more entertaining to watch than The Jay Leno Show.  Oh yeah…and a poltergeist (something that is inexplicably missing from Poltergeist II: The Other Side)!  Yep, strangely enough, Poltergeist II has nothing to do with a poltergeist, which means that the title is a lying son-of-a-bitch.  Honestly, the film should have been titled Creepy Old Guy at the Screen Door and the Future Guy from Coach Puking Out a Slimy Dwarf.  Now, I can understand why this title wasn’t used, mainly due to marketing reasons (the poster would have to be HUGE), but at least there would be some truth to the advertising.

Poltergeist II has, ironically enough, exactly II memorable scenes.  If you’ve made it this far, then you know what two scenes they are.  The first memorable scene involves a creepy old guy who sings “God is in His Holy Temple” as he strolls up to the “Poltergeist” family’s house and demands to be let in.  The creepy old guy is a demon cult leader or some shit and is portrayed by actor Julian Beck.  Mr. Beck was literally at death’s door during the shooting of the film and, unfortunately, this is painfully apparent.  Devoid of cgi and makeup; Mr. Beck’s gaunt, skeletal face proves to be more shiver-inducing than the lame, pedestrian script.  The line he screams at the screen door (“Let me in!”) is one that often makes those “Scariest Movie Moments” montages that plague television specials during this time of year.  You know the scene, right?  Sure you do.

You’ve seen it.  I’ve seen it.  We’ve all seen it.  But can you remember any other part of this flick?

How about the only other memorable scene?  It occurs when Craig T. Nelson’s character downs a bottle of tequila, worm an all.  Then he barfs up a gelatinous phlegm ball that looks like something I once ate at a Korean barbeque.  Eventually, this amorphous blob transforms into a little person with one limb (an arm) who quickly waddles away, flipping and flopping his tiny amputated nubs like small oars.  The actor portraying this green piece of smegma is Noble Craig, who has carved out a semi-fruitful career by playing disfigured creatures in a variety of other horror films.  Now, I don’t know the man, but I am going to go out on a limb here (no pun intended) and classify him as a para-midget too.  That means Poltergeist II: The Other Side has two para-midgets!  The only other time this has occurred in any medium was when Danny DeVito shared the small (no pun intended) screen with his wife Rhea Perlman on the television show Taxi.

On top of these shenanigans, there is also a semi-memorable scene that involves the Freeling’s male child being attacked by his braces.  While braces might be terrifying to kids, I’m more freaked out by overbites, underbites, harelips, grills, snaggle-teeth, veneers, dentures, crowns, mouth-guards, gingivitis, people with big gums and little teeth, people with big teeth and little gums, and, of course, retainers.  So, I find just about every other part of the human mouth (and it’s various apparatuses) more frightening than braces.  Anyway, you know the writers of the film were out of ideas when it came to torturing this fucking kid for the second film.  I mean, after you have a tree and a freaky clown doll attacking the poor bastard, what other types of inanimate objects are left?  Apparently dental appliances were the answer.  It’s a good thing this kid didn’t show up for the third film, otherwise he may have been subjected to a brutal flossing or worse, a painful ass-kicking by a bottle of Listerine.

Anyway, if you encounter Poltergeist II: The Other Side on television in the upcoming days, weeks, months, or years, do yourself a favor and only watch the aforementioned scenes.  Just like a hearty colonic, you’ll feel lighter and more carefree in the end.

For the love of all that is Holy...follow me!

Throughout my confounding, inexplicable life, I have embarked on numerous adventures and have witnessed a multitude of astonishing sights (like peering over the edge of the Grand Canyon at sunset or watching a bum urinate on an unconscious transvestite outside a Shakey’s Pizzeria).

While these excursions have shaped me in a variety of enlightening and horrific ways, I am still haunted by several of them.  Sometimes I’ll have an unprovoked flashback of, say, the time I drank moonshine on a plane (this was pre 9/11) and inappropriately began fondling my carry-on luggage, much to the shock and dismay of the sober passengers sitting beside me.

Anyway, despite these psychological “hiccups,” I still slog through my daily existence undeterred.  Yet, every so often, I find myself repeating certain situations in my mind; especially when they are as scarring and troubling as the various outdoor summer music festivals (or, as the cool kids call them, OSMFs) I have unwisely attended throughout the years.  And you know what?  Even after reliving these memories, I still never seem to learn from my mistakes.  So, with yet another summer riding off into the sunset, why not join me on a tour through my inaugural OSMF experience and my most recent OSMF experience…

The first outdoor summer music festival I attended was Lollapalooza in 1993; which took place at the Santa Fe Dam in Los Angeles, California.  The first indication that this was going to be a descent into hell was the fact that the concert was being held AT A DAM IN LOS ANGELES!  I wasn’t even aware that L.A. had a dam.  I can only assume that the dam prevents plastic surgeons, out of work actors and toothless prostitutes from escaping the city limits.

Apparently, the dam is located in a park or something.  You wouldn’t know it though (at least I didn’t know it sixteen years ago), since all one could see were dirt, ditches, quarries and sporadic clumps of grass.  And nothing quite brings out the luster of dirty rocks like blinding, searing heat.  And that’s the main staple of outdoor summer concerts…HEAT!

Had I known back then that the planet was in the process of being plowed by Satan’s furious manhood, I would have prepared a little more carefully.  Unfortunately, being the stupid teenager that I was, I only brought a couple of bucks with me (as did my group of friends) and we quickly knew trouble was in store for us after spotting scores of people lugging around gigantic jugs of water.  And did any of us bring sunscreen?  Hell no!  Sunscreen’s for pussies!  Moles, freckles and melanoma…that’s what healthy-looking skin needs!   Who gives a shit if your epidermis looks like the surface of a chocolate chip cookie!

Anyway, after gaining access to the venue and walking miles and miles to the stage, I began to feel like a marauder scavenging across a densely populated futuristic wasteland.  A wasteland teeming with freaky people tripping balls on acid.  While it was nice to see the original Alice In Chains lineup perform, I can barely recall the concert itself because I was too busy getting my hair pulled out by a tumbling crowd surfer (who latched onto my wild mane before she hit the muddy ground).  And don't ask me what it was like listening to the throbbing baselines of the headlining band Primus, cause I couldn’t tell you.  During their set, my attention was focused on the drunk moron who slapped me in the face and tore my right shoe off my foot; disappearing into the crowd faster than a Cheeto from Camryn Manheim’s pudgy palm.

I also remember standing in line for about forty minutes (completely missing Tool’s performance) in the hopes of getting a dollop of steamy, rancid water from the communal water fountain.  My parched lips furiously lapped-up the hot H20 as equally-dehydrated concertgoers playfully kicked my ribs in an effort to get me to “hurry up.”

By the time the festival was over, my sun-baked face was redder than a Shih Tzu’s dick, I only had one shoe, half my hair had been yanked out and most of my friends were missing (having been swallowed by the massive, unwashed crowds).  Plus, in order to combat the long lines when exiting the grounds, I came up with the bright idea to scale the dam.  Maybe I was suffering from heatstroke or something.  Regardless, I limped up the dam with my one good foot.  After reaching the top and steadily tumbling down the other side, I came face to face with a chain-linked fence.  Knowing I had no choice but to climb it, I grabbed hold of the steel beast and hoisted my burly frame over it, only to get my right ass cheek caught on a pointy piece.  As I daintily struck the pavement, I quickly realized that a significant chunk of my ass had been ripped out by the fence.  There it was, dangling from the fence like shark chum over the side of a boat.

So, I stumbled to my friend’s car; sunburned, half-bald, one-legged and bleeding profusely from my ass.  Just like my altar-boy days.

And, like I mentioned before, I have yet to learn from this experience.  Many summer music festivals have come and gone; all displaying similar characteristics (like horrendous food/drink/bathroom lines, scorching heat, too many people, funky smells…and sweat, lots and lots of sweat).  Despite my better judgment, I decided to attend the San Diego Street Scene a few weeks ago.  Mainly, I wanted to go because a bunch of my friends had won tickets to it and I, somewhat miraculously, ended up winning tickets too.

San Diego Street Scene is a two-night, bacchanalian romp through the cordoned-off streets of downtown San Diego.  Multiple stages are located throughout the streets, separated by long stretches of overpriced food and drink vendors.  And, even though the event doesn’t get going until darkness falls, it is still unbearably hot out (due to the weather, as well as the body heat radiating off of the thousands of drunk douchebags dancing in the streets), making the festivities about as comfortable as rolling around in a puddle of freshly-dumped asphalt.  Basically, the atmosphere is similar to that of a county/state fair (sans the rides), if the county/state fair had been shat out onto the surface of the sun.

Now, I have no idea how the weather has been in other parts of the country or in other parts of the world, but these last couple of weeks in San Diego have been insanely hot and humid.  Just standing motionless under a shady tree is enough to brew a thick gravy in your pants.  It’s been hot.  Balls hot.  And sticky.  The kind of sticky where your underwear sticks to your skin and you need a pair of salad tongs and a fly swatter to tear away the sopping-wet, X-Large Hanes from your wide-ass.

In order to pull off this monstrous concert/fair/clusterfuck, the Street Scene organizers block off several streets and generally make life a living hell for anybody who has anywhere to go to in the city.  And, not only do the organizers make life a living hell for commuters and city-dwellers, but they’ve been kind enough to destroy the souls of the paying public too.  How do they accomplish this?  By printing incomprehensible maps and disregarding all notions of common sense when it comes to the fabled beer garden (by the way, where the fuck did the term “beer garden” originate?  When I think of a “beer garden,” images of drunken forest nymphs and hammered woodland creatures dance inside my head…not puking frat boys and gussied-up skanks).

The first night, I attempted to catch Mastodon play a set, but was thwarted by the labyrinthine venue layout (which, as far as I could tell, consisted of somebody saying “Let’s just throw a bunch of shit down some streets and let the ticket-holders figure out where they need to be”).  Distraught and disappointed, I took it upon myself to self-medicate, so I camped out at the entrance to one of the many beer gardens. After finally getting inside, I had the pleasure of waiting in a wet, stinky beer line for twenty minutes.  When it came my turn to order a couple of drinks, I was informed by the beer wench that they didn’t take cash.  No, they only took tickets.

Tickets?  What tickets?

She pointed to the opposite side of the garden.  I could barely make out the “Ticket Tent” in the distance, for there was a sea of inebriated bastards blocking my view.  I took a deep breath and swam through the drunken tides; bodysurfing over to the ticket line…where I waited some more.  After wasting away in this line for fifteen minutes, I eventually reached the front and plunked downs ten bucks for five taster tickets.  Mind you, a taster is roughly the size of Mickey Rooney’s pinky toe, so you know I got my money’s worth.  Then I had to wade back into the beer line again and get my ticket punched.  Since I only have two hands, I could only order two tasters at a time.  By the time I got out of the line, the searing heat had already evaporated half the beer.

Then my friends and I spent, oh, an eon or so trying to decode the obtuse map.  We finally figured out where some of the stages were located and we were able to kind of see and mostly hear Cake perform, as well as Modest Mouse.  For the Modest Mouse set, I was crammed in the back, which was a ton of sweaty fun.  Have you ever been in a sauna with a bunch of frat guys all jacked-up on beer and bong hits?  Well, neither have I, but this came goddamn close.  Things picked up though when a girl in front of me passed-out from the heat and was escorted to a private area (actually, she was tossed over a railing and plopped down on the boiling concrete), where she was dutifully “fanned” by the security guards.  Man, how I envied her.

Anyway, after sweating out about fifteen excess pounds, I decided to regain my strength by ordering an obscenely large polish sausage (another ten bucks there), which not only broke the bank, but also made me feel slightly inadequate and, once again, envious (as well as sexually confused).  With a belly full of meat and warm beer and my ears ringing from the screams of drunken girls and guys and a frothy brew of sweat-stock bubbling in my pants, my friends, thankfully, decided to put me out of my misery by leaving the OSMF.

And I lived to see another day (but not another Street Scene...my girlfriend and I wisely decided to forgo the second night).  And, despite the infuriating beer lines, the exorbitant prices for food and drinks, the crowds crammed of drunken yahoos, the ass-igniting heat and the fathoms-deep pools of sweat; I know that I will, once again, go to an another outdoor summer music festival.  And why is that?  Because I am an optimist at heart.  And an idiot.

A big fucking idiot.

See you next summer!

Follow me or I'll kick your ass!

I used to have a deeply-tanned, anorexic neighbor in her 60’s that filled most her days by sunning beside the apartment pool.  Every now and again, she would dive into the shallowest part of the pool and just sort of float on the surface; like a buoyant turd squeezed from the ass of a sea turtle.  Why am I bringing this up?  Because Avatar Day reminded me of this woman and her pool diving.  Avatar Day didn’t make a big splash or cause too much noise and the miniscule ripples it did create faded away fairly quickly.

Yes, Avatar Day came and went with relatively little fanfare.  It began with websites crashing and ended with a bunch of shoulders shrugging.

I could go on and on about Avatar’s budget, the long development time, the promotional problems, the public’s perceptions regarding the trailer and everything else that has very little to do with the actual experience of watching the film on a big screen in 3-D.  But all that shit is boring.  When it comes down to it, people want to know if the preview footage was impressive or, in the least, enjoyable.

But before I get into that, I need to talk about the context of the viewing situation, mainly because I like to ramble on about shit nobody cares about.  It makes me feel important.  So, in order to see the 16 minutes of Avatar footage, I had to register online, get an email confirmation that included my name and a code, then go to the theater on Friday (they recommended arriving 45 minutes early) and show up with a print-out of the email and a photo ID.  This was enough to get me and a guest inside.  Also, it was stressed that no recording materials were allowed during the screening.

All IMAX theaters North and South of me were sold out, so I looked inland and found one that still had tickets available.  Since I didn’t know where this theater was, I used Google Maps and Yahoo Maps to get directions.  Somehow I received two completely different routes and, after banging my head between my car door for five minutes, decided to go with the Google Maps directions.

My girlfriend and I got to the theater about an hour early and there was a line of about 15 people already waiting.  As we stood for what seemed like an eternity (we were in front of three teenage girls who yammered at high decibels about Disneyland, alcoholic parents and the Twilight books and films…which made me seriously consider breaking out my pair of brass knuckles so I could hammer away at my nutsack in the hopes of self-sterilization; so, in the future, I would never be cursed with children like these), the line finally started moving and we were led inside.  This was good for several reasons, especially since we were sandwiched between the annoying, talkative teens and a woman who had the worst breath I have ever had the misfortune to catch a whiff of.  It was like she sucked clean the armpit juice from a fat, sweaty Cajun man and spit the steamy concoction straight into my face.  I tell you, it stung like acid.

Anyway, for some inexplicable reason, there was a snack jockey in the theater, selling massive buckets of popcorn and sodas the size and girth of Kirstie Alley’s cankles.  The preview was 16 minutes long…how much fucking popcorn and soda do you really need?

Anyway, I would say that the theater was probably a little over a third full, but not quite half-way full.  I guess it would be “thalf-way full.”  Did you just see what I did?  I merged the words “third” and “half” and created a new word.  Man, I’m a goddamn genius.  So, the lights finally dimmed and everybody strapped on their 3-D glasses and James Cameron appeared onscreen, briefly explaining that the footage we were going to see was from the first half of the film and was spoiler-free.  Like many other bloggers, journalists and sexless dorks have reported, these scenes were the same ones that were previewed at the San Diego Comic-Con a few weeks back.

These included Stephen Lang briefing a bunch of military dudes about the planet Pandora and the Na’vi (alien species) ways of killing with poisonous arrows (no special effects here, except for Lang’s scarred face); Jake (played by Sam Worthington), undergoing the Avatar program transformation, with help from Sigourney Weaver’s character Dr. Grace Augustine (I really dug this scene, the awkwardness of Jake as he stumbles around the room in confusion and adjusting to his new body was well-realized); a chase scene on Pandora involving Jake and a couple of big fucking creatures (fairly intense and well-done, you get the impression that Jake is cocky, especially since he screams “That’s what I’m talking about bitch!” to a cowering creature…who is backing away from something behind Jake); Jake getting attacked by weird canine-like creatures at night, only to be saved by a female Na’vi named Neytiri (played by Zoe Saldana) who is upset by Jake’s intrusion into her world; Jake trying to tame a pterodactyl-like creature so he can “ride” it; and a quick smattering of clips that appeared in the teaser (like the mechs stomping around, the military guys shooting the pterodactyls, and Jake and Neytiri about to kiss).

So, was it any good?  Yes.  The 16 minutes flew by and, while I was not completely blown away by the footage, I did get pulled into the story within the limited amount of time.  The 3-D was uniquely effective; instead of objects being “thrown” towards the screen, the visuals were more layered and immersive.  I guess they were more “natural.”

It also seems that many are concerned with the look of the Na’vi and the CGI appearing unnatural.  I found that, on the big screen and in 3-D, the visuals were bright, colorful and fairly photorealistic.  The designs and execution were definitely more impressive than what the teaser communicated.  I especially liked the Sigourney Weaver Avatar, which looked extremely similar to her.  Never though, at any point, did I find Sam Worthington’s character or Zoe Saldana’s character looking “real,” even though they did look impressive (especially in the scene where Jake wakes up in his new body.  Quite often CGI looks weightless, but here, one could sense the heft, height and body mass of this character).  If it means anything, several people in the theater kept “ooooooooing” and “aaaaaaaaaing” throughout the preview and, when it was over, many enthusiastically clapped.

Is the movie revolutionary?  I don’t know.  Do I want to see it when it comes out?  Yes.  The preview definitely stoked my interest and made me want to see more.  Whether or not Avatar translates well to 2-D screens, I don’t know.  I guess it all depends on how well Cameron can deliver an exciting story.  As it is, I would think that the 3-D experience would be the way to go when viewing the film.  It added depth and immersion that I have yet to experience in a theater (keep in mind that the last film I saw in 3-D was Jaws 3-D when I was about four…man, what a piece of floating sea turtle shit that was).  So there you go, that was Avatar Day for me.

You’re welcome James Cameron and Fox!

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I rarely remember my dreams.

Every now and then images from a dream (or dreams) will linger in my mind.  And sometimes these images float around in my cranial nooks and crannies for seconds, minutes, even for years on end; camping out until I discover their hiding places.

Then I remember them.

Sometimes.

On Friday, July 24^th, 2009, in the early hours of the morning, I experienced a vivid dream.

A dream I remember.

A lingering dream that went beyond a collection of images flickering before my eyes at 24 frames per second. A dream full of screeching, cacophonous sounds.  A dream stuffed with haunting, pungent smells.

A dream about Comic-Con.  Actually, this was more than a dream.  It was a horrific violation of my sleep.

An intrusion.  Like an uninvited guest arriving at your doorstep, late at night.  Actually, it was more like a home invasion.

I dreamt of lines stretching as far as the eye could see.  Lines longer than Manute Bol’s forearm.

And I was at the end of every line.  Each one converging to where I stood.

And none were moving.

I was outside of Hall H; the sun scorching my face.  I could feel the heat baking my flesh as chunks of charred skin peeled from my cheekbones, splattering onto the boiling concrete.  I gazed down at the remains, which looked like chewy, sinewy pieces of pulled pork from a greasy Mexican restaurant.

Then I panicked.  Not because my flesh was burning off, but because I couldn’t get into any of the panels.  The lines were too long.  They weren’t moving.  It was as though I was stuck on the 101 North freeway during rush hour traffic.

I could not get into the Avatar panel.  I could not get into the Terry Gilliam panel.

And all around me, nerds were frying and boiling under the sun.  Sweat flopped and popped from their moistened heads; rising like steam and evaporating into the air.

Geek B.O. pummeled my quivering nostrils; suffocating me.

Then, an ocean of white engulfed my body.  Defenseless and immobile, I was ravaged by a tsunami of unused Clearasil pads.  While these pads spun me into a Hydrogen Peroxide-soaked cotton cocoon, I watched in horror as every Con-goer in every line turned to face me.

Everybody who stared back at me was horribly scarred with acne.  I saw Wolverine with mounds of purple zits harvesting on his sweaty forehead.  And a farm of plump cherry tomatoes sprouted above Wonder Woman’s breastplate.

Zits everywhere; on everyone.  On Captain Kirk.  On Captain Jack Sparrow.  On Batman.  My God, even on Pikachu.

I screamed, but nothing emerged from my throat.

Then I awoke.

DING!  DING!  DING!

These were the sounds of downtown San Diego at four in the morning.  The rhythmic bells of the trolley station calmly going off every goddamn minute.  I shuffled out of bed and glanced out my hotel room window, seeing nothing but blurry red lights.

DING!  DING!  DING!

No trolleys trickled along the tracks.

I climbed back into bed, my heart racing and my ears ringing.  Sleep did not come easy, but when it did, I did not dream.

When I rolled out of bed at 10:00 in the morning, I quickly realized that my stiff joints had atrophied within the past six hours and my weary bones felt like they had been pummeled by a garbage bag full of rusty railroad spikes.  Checkout time was two hours away and I could barely hover above the toilet bowl to take a whiz.  Things weren’t boding well for another jam-packed day of wading through sweaty dorks.  Nor was I looking forward to tackling the exhaustive drive back home.

So I decided to stay another night.

To accomplish this, I crawled out the hotel room door and used my prominent gut to propel myself across the carpeted hallways, where the centrifugal force helped me careen down the stairs like a human luge.  Then I flopped along the slick lobby floor like a rampaging seal squirming along a barren beach.

At the front desk, I had an enlightening conversation with the apathetic, disinterested hotel clerk, who monotonously informed me that another night, in the same room, would cost me an extra 200 dollars.  Already, I had sold my first born baby on the black market in order to stay one night (I’ll miss li’l Jimmy…he looked just like a peanut), so, seeing that the product of my forbidden seed was floating away on a boat somewhere, my bargaining chip was already spent.  So, I decided to hightail it out of there and try my luck someplace else.

After gathering our belongings (which, in my case, was a bottle of Gentleman Jack Whiskey and a bucket of Slim Jims), my girlfriend and I crammed ourselves into the overstuffed elevator, where I found myself face to face with Billy Mumy.  For people under the age of 90, Billy Mumy was the creepy, annoying kid in a few Twilight Zone episodes from the 1950’s.  The most well-known episode he starred in was called “It’s a Good Life,” where he portrayed a ginger brat named Anthony Fremont who uses his mind to strike fear into a bunch of inbred hicks.

The ride down to the lobby was extremely uncomfortable.  I felt and smelled Billy Mumy’s breath on me (it smelled faintly of lilac) and my brain kept flashing images of him sending people to an ominous cornfield.  Every time Mr. Mumy shifted his weight, cold chills burrowed deep inside my bowels (then again, maybe this was the previous day’s cheese platter coming back to haunt me).  Regardless, the elevator couldn’t reach the lobby quick enough.  And when it did, my girlfriend and I bolted out of there faster than a cheetah on meth.

So we made our way down the street to the Hyatt, expecting to get partially lubed and roughly fisted by the ritzy hotel.  Imagine my surprise when I was told that the room available would be nearly 250 bucks cheaper than the Marriot.  And, it was a bayside view.  On top of this, the Hyatt reminded me of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland.  It reeked of chlorinated water and musky antiques.  This was not a bad thing.

After some drinks at the bar and some more drinks at the bar, we headed out to the convention floor, where we met up with some friends.  Right off the bat, I noticed a tall, lanky guy at one of the booths who looked like a young Howard Stern.I kept staring at him thinking, “Son-of-a-bitch, this tall, lanky guy looks like a young Howard Stern.”  Then it hit me, this guy was Gene Simmons’ son.  So I snapped a photo of him, shooting from the hip.  I got a nice picture of his hair.  If you looked at the picture and I told you it was of Gene Simmons’ son, you would probably believe me.

Maybe.

Then, my friend showed me some photos he took of Seth Green as he walked the floor, as well as some prime video footage featuring the top of Rhea Perlman’s head as she scurried and scampered through the crowd.

This was the extent of our celebrity encounters. 

Anyway, after being underwhelmed by the exhibitor floor once again, my girlfriend and I headed outside to get some air, where we made it our mission to take pictures with every costumed person that struck our fancy.  While spiraling into this vortex of geekdom, I spotted a guy in front of me trying to push freebies onto the uninterested people who passed by.

When it comes to freebies, I’m kind of picky.  I have so much worthless shit in my apartment right now that it looks like the set of Sanford & Son.  Somehow, I even have an old black man living with me.  Explain that.

So, I’m watching this guy trying to hand off stuff to people and everybody is just scooting past him, shrugging him off.  For some reason, this kid’s plight touched me.  It touched me like a reticent lover who is too scared and timid to caress my frightening, bulbous crotch.  Throwing caution to the wind, I sauntered up to the kid and said, “I’ll take one of those.”

His eyes lit up.  His cheeks flushed red.“Cool!”

Then he handed over a small, xeroxed map and two admission tickets that had “Flynn’s Arcade” printed on them.  Pointing at the map, he said “Go to this site at 9:00 tonight.”

I examined the map and saw that it wasn’t too far away from where we were staying.  Then the kid drew in closer to me and faintly asked, “Do you know who Flynn is?”

Flynn?  Who the fuck is Flynn?

Then I glanced back down to the tickets.

Flynn’s Arcade.

Somehow, I drudged up an adolescent memory buried underneath all the other useless knowledge that resides in my tortured mind.

Flynn.

“Yeah,” I said.  “It’s the guy from Tron.”

“Awesome,” he cooed, as though I had just lightly tickled his balls with a feather.  Then he dug into his pant pocket and extracted a gold coin and handed it to me.  “Is someone else coming with you?”  He asked.

“Yeah.”

Back into his pocket.

Another gold coin.

Flynn’s Arcade.

Then he disappeared, as though an apparition.  Or a symptom of my DT’s.

Does anybody know anything about the movie Tron?  Cause I sure as hell don’t.  I’ve seen the film once, when I was about eight years old.  Oh sure, I’ve seen bits and pieces of it on television throughout the years, but I have never sat through the whole thing again.

I know Jeff Bridges is in it.

I also know that Bruce Boxleitner is in it.

And David Warner.

I also recall a bunch of people wearing tight, weird, fluorescent body suits.

And it’s set inside a videogame.  With cool bicycles and Frisbees.

Trust me, I am not being condescending or facetious.  That is all I remember about the film.  During my formative years, I was too busy admiring my pint-sized hard-on while drooling over teen sex comedies like Porky’s, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Bachelor Party, The Last American Virgin, Fraternity Vacation, Private Resort, Losin’ It, and of course, Private School. At this tender age, I could care less about explosions or special effects.  I wanted nude chicks!

Anyway, after some drinks at the hotel bar and some more drinks at the hotel bar, my girlfriend and I stumbled downtown, where we wound up in a line outside of a building that had a bright red “Flynn’s” sign lit above it.

Suddenly, catcalls and handclaps momentarily woke me from my drunken stupor.  So I whipped around, only to see Jon Favreau quickly sprinting by.

Actually, he was hauling ass.

As he zoomed by, he raised his hand in a “Hi” motion.  Apparently, some people in line were offended by Mr. Favreau’s speed-walking greeting and began flinging insults his way.  Big fucking deal, so the dude didn’t want to stop and get mobbed by strangers in a line.  In the past, I’ve had encounters with numerous “celebs” (I’m looking your way Diane Lane and Dave Mustaine) that have been borderline rude and/or frightening, but I didn’t hold it against them…well maybe against Diane Lane.  Anyway, I thought this reaction by the assorted nerds was uncalled for.

Anyway, after about fifteen minutes or so, we were finally let through the doors of the building.  And I use the word “building” in the loosest sense.It was basically a room the size of my cramped apartment.

The doors closed behind us and a beefy security guard promptly parked himself in front of them.

We were trapped.

Trapped in a room full of geeks and classic arcade games.  Old school arcade games like Pac-man, Donkey Kong and Missile Command.  And, of course, Tron.  And, apparently, the arcade game featured in the movie Tron; Space Paranoids (I did not play this, but I did glance at it).

As 80’s tunes blasted through the sound system, I attacked a blurry, out-of-focus round of Centipede.  Then I strolled over to the Spy Hunter game and quickly realized that it was broken.So I moved over to Galaga.

Broken.

Okay, maybe I’ll take a stab at the pinball machine.  Well slap my dick, what do you know?  It doesn’t work.

At this point, I decided that I had had my fill of 80’s nostalgia.

Walking over to the guy guarding the doors, I politely asked if I could be let out.

“It’ll be a couple of minutes.”  He curtly said.

Wait.  We are fucking trapped in here?

I found this strange and illegal.  What if there was a fire?  Or what if I was struck by a violent bout of “the shits” and had to get out?  What if…?  What if…?

More perplexed than anything, I wandered back to my girlfriend and relayed the guard’s message. And, much like me, she flashed a “WTF?” look and thought our predicament was strange and illegal.  I momentarily shrugged it off and headed back to one of the only functioning games, which happened to be the infuriating Paperboy.

After running my bike into a break dancer for the tenth time and dying, I decided that I had, once again, had my fill of 80’s nostalgia.

Then the lights dimmed.  And the soothing sounds of Journey’s “Separate Ways” faded.  Suddenly, the wall where the Tron arcade game rested against spread open, revealing a dark, dank and mysterious hole, which strangely prompted horrific flashbacks of my first sexual experience.  Then all the Tron dorks stopped fiddling with their broken games and headed for the wall.

Daft Punk’s music filled our ears.  And swirls of fog spiraled through the dark hallway that had been concealed by the wall.  The horde of Tron geeks lined up outside the opening and we all marched inside, single-file.Lining the hallway wall were pictures of concept art from the upcoming Tron Legacy film.  It looked like most of this art revolved around new design concepts for the light cycles.

Then came the money shot.

A full-scale, life-size light cycle rotated in a cordoned-off area, flanked by two stoic bodyguards.

Everybody (including me) congregated to this area and pushed forward; snapping pictures.  After this mad dash (which was reminiscent of he mosh pit I got trapped in at a Ministry concert several years ago), I got the hell out of there and made my way towards the exit.  Before emerging from the horrid birth canal, my girlfriend and I were handed free “Flynn Lives” T-shirts and were told that secret messages were written on them, accessible by flashing a black light on the material.

Once outside, we decided to stroll down to the Omni Hotel for a night cap.  Incidentally, this was the night of the big Wrath of the Con part at the Hard Rock Hotel.  The lines outside this place were insane and the subtle, ball-tightening wailing of Daughtry could be heard traveling towards the streets below.

At the Omni, every now and again various character actors, comic book artists/writers and directors would pass by, probably heading down to the Hard Rock.  While my girlfriend and I rested in the lobby, two guys came in and sat next to us.  One guy was dressed fairly normal in blue jeans and a jacket…but the other guy was something else.  I couldn’t figure out if he was dressed like an Italian clothing designer or a 70’s era pimp.  Or both.  He wore a dapper white suit and underneath the suit he wore a brown turtleneck sweater.  He was an older gentleman; very slight and frail, yet there was a regal dignity seeping through his pores.  And perched above his nose were a pair of aviator sunglasses.  His shockingly white hair matched his suit and his brown turtleneck matched his overly tan skin.

The two men barely said anything to each other.  They just sat silently beside us, not even bothering to order any drinks from the roaming waitress.  And every few minutes or so, somebody would walk over to the designer/pimp and greet him with a hug or with tiny kisses on his cheeks.

Who was this guy?

After about twenty minutes or so, more people started to surround him (and, by default, us); where they would just kind of mill about uncomfortably.  Then, when about ten people showed up, they started pulling up chairs.  Instantaneously, my girlfriend and I became a part of this group.

We did the friendly chatter thing, but did not pry into anybody’s business.  Soon after, a guy brushed up beside me, talking on his cellphone.Loudly.  This is what he said:

“Yeah.  I’m standing here looking right at him.Yeah.  It’s Jim Steranko.”

My head jerked towards the cellphone guy and, me being the rude bastard that I am, asked him “That’s Jim Steranko?”

He nodded dismissively, clearly annoyed that I broke into his conversation.

Jim Steranko.  Noted comic book artist.  The man who propelled Nick Fury into the nerd consciousness during the swingin’ 60’s.

I want to be Jim Steranko, I thought.  I want to have the balls to wear a leisure suit on a balmy summer night, with an itchy turtleneck sweater underneath.  I want to have the balls to sport sunglasses in a dimly-lit hotel lobby.  I want strangers and acquaintances alike to approach me and plant plaintive kisses on my cheeks.  I want to be Jim Steranko.  Did you hear me?

I WANT TO BE JIM STERANKO!

If I came away with anything during my Comic-Con excursion, it was this epiphany.

That night, with my bones aching, my sphincter pulsating and my liver hemorrhaging, I slowly drifted off to sleep.

And I dreamt I was Jim Steranko.

It's a dream I remember well.  It was not a nightmare.

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Going to the San Diego Comic-Con is like getting fisted by the beefy, greased-up hand of Kirstie Alley.  At first it’s kind of pleasant and you’re mildly star-struck, but eventually the pain sets in and you’re overcome with an overwhelming sense of shame. And after the whole miserable affair is over, you’re left shaking underneath the shower nozzle, trying to scrub yourself clean.

With that lovely image in mind, here’s my Thursday Comic-Con report:

First things first, if you’re expecting some earth-shattering info about new films, games, comics or television shows, then you’re shit-out-of-luck. Why?  Well, I didn’t make it into any of the panels this year.  And why is that?  It’s because Comic-Con lines have become more bloated than Marlon Brando’s corpse.

And I learned something very important this trip.  I learned that the panels need some serious restructuring.  On Thursday my girlfriend and I valiantly tried to get into the Alice In Wonderland panel, but after contemplating standing in the massive line, I decided it would be more pleasurable to perform seppuku on my sweaty testicles.  And do you know why the line was so atrocious?  Because the Twilight panel was scheduled directly after the Alice In Wonderland panel.  Every pre-pubescent girl, lonely housewife and middle-aged virgin had camped out the night before; all to get a glimpse of Robert Pattinson’s flowing, unkempt locks.  And trust me, I have no real problem with Twilight fans (even though I give them enough grief…but fuck, my girlfriend has devoured all the books and has seen the movie about 40 times, so I have witnessed the damage the series has done on a personal level.  Plus, I’m a raging dork too, so I have nothing to brag about.  However, I have had sex at least once in my lifetime, so I guess I have that on these rabid fans.  But I kid…)

Anyway, having Twilight scheduled after Alice In Wonderland was genius on Disney’s part (if they even had anything to do with it), since they were guaranteed a packed house.  However, this pretty much cock-blocked most of the Tim Burton fans.  As a friend of mine has suggested, the Comic-Con should really take a look into making separate lines for different panels, so that every fan has the opportunity to get into whatever panel they want to.  I’m sure there’s flaws to this system (like crowd control problems and problems with shuffling everybody out of finished presentations); but at least I’m offering up a solution.  As it is now, people can get into Hall H early and stay in there all day.

So, since this proved to be a bust, we decided to hit up the Masters of the Web panel (featuring folks from various sites like CHUD, AICN, IESB and Bloody-Disgusting, to name a few) and plowed through the doors about ten minutes into the Q & A session.  Without any room to sit (unless we wanted to climb over audience members), we opted to stand in the back of the room.  This was perfectly fine…until two stampeding Goths moped in and parked themselves directly in front of us. One was a very large woman and the other was a very large man.  The man had these nasty-ass dreadlocks that kept stabbing me in the eye and jamming into my nostrils.  At one point, his stinky hair momentarily rested on my lips.  It smelled like patchouli and had a faint, tangy and salty taste.  Like a barbeque Lay’s potato chip.

If this wasn’t bad enough, a dude with a video camera the size of Lou Ferrigno’s ego squeezed himself between us and the Rastafarian Marilyn Manson look-alike (if Marilyn Manson decided to move to Jamaica and live off a steady diet of Mallomars and Moon Pies).  So, in between getting a mouthful of Lay’s-flavored dreadlocks and dealing with the overwhelming desire to punch myself in the face, I now how to contend with a large camera lens jabbing into my right temple.

Thankfully, just before I was about to weep, the cameraman took off and I only had to deal with the gigantic Predator/King Diamond hybrid that perched in front of me.  By this time, Kevin Munroe (the director of the upcoming film Dead of Night) introduced clips of the movie and then brought out stars Anita Briem, Sam Worthington and Brandon Routh.

And I’m not too sure about this one folks.  I’m not familiar with the source material of this adaptation (based on an Italian comic called Dylan Dog), so I have no idea how faithful the film looks, but the clips came off as a bit cheesy and extremely B-movie-ish.  Also, Brandon Routh came off very stiff (and this is coming from someone who actually liked Superman Returns and Routh’s performance in the film).  Then again, I shall reserve judgment until the movie is released, but I can say that I wasn’t too impressed with the footage I saw.  This is unfortunate too, since I like everybody in the cast.

And, much like last years panel, trivia questions were then thrown the audience’s way.  These were geek-centric and the prize of answering correctly was a pair of tickets to the Wrath of Con party Friday night at the Hard Rock hotel.  Being the raging dork that I am, I figured it would be a cake-walk to answer these questions.  However, my cockiness soon subsided once the questions were lobbed towards us.  I might as well been asked to do complex Geometric theorems or to do calculations on how long my boner would last after sucking down ten Rum and Cokes.  Anyway, I thought all hope was lost until a question about Twilight was posed (specifically, “What kind of car does Edward drive?”).

Knowing damn well that this was right up my girlfriend’s alley, I turned to her and asked, “Do you know this?”  With a confident nod of the head, she smiled and raised her hand.  I did a quick scan of the room to size up our chances and spotted a couple of girls struggling to extract this information from their minds.

We had this is the bag.

Since we were obscured by the pair of meaty Goths, I grabbed my girlfriend’s arm and raised it to the heavens, screaming “Right here!  Right here!”  The room collectively shifted their gaze our way, which prompted my now-skittish girlfriend to yank her arm away from my grip and shake her head like a protesting deaf-mute.

Her confidence had vanished.  Along with our tickets.

Mere seconds later, another girl had a Twilight epiphany and quickly shouted out a serviceable answer.  This led us to hang our heads in defeat.  With this opportunity gone, we bolted out of the room and decided to soak our sorrows in alcohol.  But before we did this, we strolled through the autograph area; where (much like last year) I again caught a glimpse of Thomas Jane.  Now, I don’t know the man, but from what I’ve witnessed, he seems to embrace the throngs of waiting nerds with humble enthusiasm and seems to be a nice guy.  Trust me, I have seen actors and actresses treat their fans as though they were riddled with syphilis.  Anyway, Thomas Jane is okay in my book, which will probably warm his heart if he ever reads this.

Another thing I learned from Comic-Con was that, in the future, I should never order the “cheese platter” at the Marriott Hotel adjacent to the Convention Center.  And let me preface this by saying I think the Marriott is a great Hotel (we had an awesome view of the city and a spacious balcony in our room), but when I think of a “cheese platter,” visions of assorted cheeses dance through my head; not a warm plate full of stale crackers, some kind of gelatinous fig loaf, three cubes of heinous-tasting cheeses and three globs of jellies and jams that look like they were violently extracted out of a newborn baby’s ass.  And the worst part?  This stomach-churning concoction cost over ten dollars!  Ten dollars!

After a self-induced vomit and a thorough tongue-scraping, we headed back to the lower Exhibitor Hall, where we were blindsided by stenches that reeked worse than the aromas of the cheese platter festering in my sore guts.  Dizzy and discombobulated, we shambled through the hall in an alcohol and bad-cheese stupor.  Overall, I was fairly unimpressed by the booths this year.  In the past, there have been a couple of standout displays and cool freebies, but this time nothing really grabbed our attention.

Without any incentive to stay, we headed back to the Hotel and drank some more, while taking in an episode of the Tyra Banks show dealing with straight men who performed in gay porn.  Once again, I could feel that cheese platter working its way up my esophagus

After cleaning up, we made our way to a party at the Hard Rock Hotel.  Since I’m not sure if I can comment on the party (if I get the okay, I’ll inform you guys later), I will say that I met quite a few interesting people and ingested enough free booze to knock out a Shetland pony.  Concerned about making it to a screening of the long-in-purgatory horror film Trick R Treat, we exited the party and headed back to the Con, where we encountered yet another long-ass line.

Soon, we were herded into Ballroom 20, where Aint It Cool News guru Harry Knowles moderated a panel featuring director Michael Dougherty and stars Brian Cox and Lauren Lee Smith.  Since actress Anna Paquin didn’t show up (it was her birthday), Michael Dougherty called her cellphone and, while putting it on speaker, had the audience sing “Happy Birthday” to her voice mail.  Then the movie started.

Now, for those of you who have been waiting for Trick R Treat to be released, I can honestly say that the movie is fun, humorous and suspenseful.  It reminded me of Creepshow (the theme music seemed similar and the credit sequence was set-up with panels from a comic book).  I had a blast with it and look forward to catching it again when it comes out on DVD in October.  However, I had the worst group of annoying bastards sitting behind me during the screening, which really tainted the experience.  For one thing, there was a group of guys sitting behind my girlfriend who felt the compelling need to talk about what chicks they banged the previous night and how tasty the pizza they just ate was.  Punctuated in between this fascinating conversation was loud laughter (not related to the movie they were “watching”) and catcalls directed towards the girls onscreen.  To make matters worse, I had two insufferable girls behind me who rhythmically kicked the back of my seat during the duration of the film (despite the fact that I repeatedly whipped around, flashing them the “stink-eye”) and who were nibbling on some unknown foodstuffs that made their lips smack together as if they were gnawing on moist towelettes.

CHOMP!  CHOMP!  SMACK!  SMACK!

And every goddamn thing that happened in the movie was commented on.  I’m all for audience participation, but when every detail of every scene is spoken about, it really destroys the enjoyment factor.  Here’s a sampling of what I heard:

“What kind of shoes is she wearin’?”

“Uh-uh!  Don’t touch that guy!”

“Sookie is so cute.  Sookie, don’t touch that guy!”

“Awwwww.  I want those shoes!”

This went on during the whole film.  Ninety fucking minutes.  Still, Trick R Treat was compelling enough to help ease me through the pain and suffering.

After the film, my girlfriend and I headed back to the Hotel (where we spotted the same two passed-out guys on the chairs next to the bar area…they had been asleep for about four hours) and quickly launched ourselves into bed.  We were sore, sunburned and our livers hurt.

Stay tuned for DAY TWO OF MY COMIC-CON ADVENTURE!

A year ago I put forth an infamous trilogy of Comic-Con reports that set temblors across the landscape of the internet community.  How do I know this?  Because one person commented on my writing in the forums.  One goddamn person.  So, I am currently re-evaluating just exactly how I should cover the Con this year or, more importantly, if I should cover it at all.  If all goes as planned, I will be there Thursday, Friday and Saturday.  That’s three days of sleep deprivation and three days of inhaling nerd sweat.  Please, for the love of God people…shower before entering the Con!

Since I’m not a journalist and barely a man, I just might forgo these write-ups and stick to updates on my Twitter account.  Unfortunately, I can only post from my PC and laptop (neither of which will be with me at the Con), so it’s not the timeliest of solutions.  Plus, every son-of-a-bitch with an internet connection will be flooding websites with updates, interviews, previews and their impressions of lame upcoming movies and television shows.  So, it’s not like there will be a dearth of Comic-Con news filtering out of the fabled, stinky halls of the San Diego Convention Center, and, truth be told, I’ll probably be hammered most of the time and who needs to read my garbled and slurred updates anyway?  The point is, does anybody really need more fucking Comic-Con coverage?  Of course, I’m guessing some crazy shit will go down while I’m there and I’ll have the compelling need to share it with everyone in my own obtuse, semi-retarded way.  Or I might just write a scathing report attacking all the unkempt assholes that didn’t invite me to parties or completely ignored me on the floor or in the bars or on the streets.

And since I mentioned possibly doing Twitter updates, I need to express my praise and condemnation of this evil/great site (something that has been written about on CHUD quite recently by several bloggers).  Not too long ago I registered with the site and somehow got addicted to posting stupid shit and sending questions/comments to various friends, actors, musicians, and internet folk.  Maybe people just don’t like hearing from people they don’t know (which begs the question “Why post a public profile to begin with?”) but I have discovered that getting responses from people you don’t have any personal contact with is damn near impossible.  For fuck’s sake, at least grant someone the courtesy of replying back if they have gone out of the way to write to you. What happened to respect?  Are you really telling me that Carrot Top doesn’t have enough time to type up a quick response to one of my hilarious queries?

Anyway, that’s all for my ranting (right now).  I encourage all of you to say hi if you see me at the Con and feel free to follow me on Twitter (trust me, there’s room).  And here are some tips for Convention first-timers:

Try to breathe from your mouth as much as possible.

Bring deodorant.

Use the deodorant.

If you stink, stay away from me.

If you’re trying to get into the Twilight/New Moon/Whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called panel, stay away from me.

If you don’t stink and are not going to the Twilight panel, buy me a drink.

If you can get me into a party, then what the fuck are you waiting for?

Make sure you urinate and/or poop before standing in the Hall H line.

Do not urinate and/or poop while standing in the Hall H line.

Please, in the name of all that is Holy, if you are morbidly obese, wear pants.

If you choose to wear leather, watch out for chaffing!

See you folks at the Con!

I haven’t figured out the answer to the first question yet (I have theories), but I do know the answer to the second question. You see, I haven’t been to the dentist in about, oh, a fucking eon or so.  Many people tout the old adage of treating your body like a temple, well, I think it’s more fun to treat your body like a biker gang’s outhouse.

Fuck you!  I’m gonna smoke, drink and eat pork!

In recent years I have tried to be better about what goes in and out of my body, as well as performing the general maintenance associated with getting older.

So, about two weeks ago I finally swallowed what little pride I had and decided to make a dental appointment.  This was a massive step for me, since I have a paralyzing fear of strange men probing the inside of my mouth.  The last time I had a strange man shove his hand inside my mouth it was a non-consensual affair that took place in the alleyway behind a Thai restaurant.

And I learned two things that night:#1; alcohol doesn’t completely numb the body and #2; too much curry makes people do weird shit.

Moving on…

Wandering into the dentist’s office, I was quickly put to ease by the sight of an older gentleman sitting across from me in the waiting room.  He had a harelip and, swinging from his deformed kisser like a liquid pendulum was a thin, gooey string of spittle.  Apparently, he was unaware of the juice that dripped from his lip.  I’m guessing this had to do with the intellectually stimulating reading material that he was intently focused on.  For my money, nothing explodes synapses quite like a People magazine article about those fucking idiots from Jon & Kate Plus 8.  The whole time I was sitting there I was thinking, Do people with harelips have more dental problems than people without harelips?  I mean, their upper teeth are more exposed to the elements since, you know, there is no lip there to protect the enamel.  Do they have more tartar buildup and plaque?

Before I could solve these deep riddles and before I could barf or jam a complimentary toothbrush into my eyeball, I was summoned to the X-Ray machine.  At first I got excited, since a heavy bib was draped over my head.  Briefly, I thought, Sweet, Gabe’s gonna be eatin’ ribs tonight!  Alas, the bib wasn’t there to soak up barbeque sauce, it was there to, I don’t know, soak up radiation or something.  Then a telescope-looking contraption was swiveled around my head and I was forced to bite down on several hard plastic things.  The last time I was forced to bite down on several hard things I was in the alleyway behind a Thai restaurant and…oh wait, nevermind.  Anyway, this interlude was somewhat disconcerting because I have a severe fear of robots, machines, and, strangely enough, radiation.  I handled this well though, only a drip or two of piss trickled down my pants.

Anyway, after several years of neglect (wherein I gulped down half a dozen fillings, regularly flossed my teeth with beef jerky, and consistently gargled with Mountain Dew; leaving my mouth looking like the worn-out bunghole of a shit-prone Rottweiler) I took my medicine like a man and was calmly dragged to the dentist’s chair, where I white-knuckled my way through relaxing probes, pokes and scrapes by a variety of sinister hooks, spatulas and harpoons.  For a minute there, I thought I had wandered into the OB/GYN office by mistake.  I can’t wait to get back the results of my tongue Pap smear!

Immediately I realized that nothing eases the tension quite like the feeling of a metal hook scraping across sensitive teeth.  I especially get a kick out of sharp steel instruments being jammed into rotted-out cavities.  Somehow I was able to survive this torture, only to be told that I had to come back for more work.

More work?

So this is what my life has devolved into.  One uncomfortable dental visit after another (and, this is no knock on my dentist or anybody else at the office; they’ve all been great).  As of now, I have a temporary crown on my back, right molar; while the left side of my mouth has more exposed holes than an AVN awards-show after-party.  Basically, this means I can’t eat anything solid.  And that means I can’t eat anything good.

So I’ve added more Whiskey to my diet.

Take care of your teeth kids!

Anyway, I am not going to complain about the usual movie-theater problems (like having to listen to noisy audience members, or loud babies, or having to hear cell phones go off, or having to smell rampant flatulence, or having to winess people getting waterboarded); instead, I am going to share a few recent memorable moments that have collectively soured me on catching flicks in theaters. 

And, while I have not completely given up on going to the movies (I would venture out more often if, say, a theater nearby started screening German enema porn), I still often think twice before plopping down some bills for something that will hit DVD in two weeks.

So, with that in mind, here are three recent experiences that happened, one right after another, in a couple of neighborhood theaters.

A couple weeks back, my friend and I decided to hit up a flick at a rundown, dilapidated movie theater that was perched on the corner of Gang Avenue and Drive-by Boulevard.  After suiting up in our Kevlar vests and bolting for the lobby in an erratic, zigzag pattern, we safely reached our seats.  I knew trouble was brewing the second we set foot in the theater, since several 40 ouncers of Mickey’s Malt Liquor rattled and rolled past our feet.  Before the lights even dimmed, a group of “ruffians” began shouting at a group of “young tuffs.”  They shouted horrific things at each other.  Words so foul and nut-shriveling that the mere mention of them instantaneously straightened my pubic hairs. The taunting continued to escalate and my friend and I shrunk in our seats, sinking into them as low as we could go.

If they don’t see us, they can’t shoot us, I thought.

Quickly, my eyes darted for the “EXIT” signs and I shoved both hands into my pockets, scavenging for something, anything that could be used for protection.  You know, like a pair of brass knuckles, or a canister of pepper spray, or a photo of Star Jones.  Unfortunately, all I had were a couple of fuzzy Tic-Tacs and a wadded-up piece of tissue paper.  Also unfortunately, I never watched MacGyver growing up, so I did not know how to construct an implement of death out of these disparate items.

Then, miraculously, the group abruptly left the movie, probably to go kill each other in a better theater.  Everything happened so fast that I didn’t notice what exactly did happen, mainly because I let my mind wander, where I pictured myself in a “happy place” (which basically consisted of a movie theater devoid of feuding gang members).  My friend didn’t notice anything either, he was too busy praying.

The next incident happened a week later, when I had the pleasure of sitting next to a dude who kept rocking back and forth in his seat.  And this wasn’t a calm, rhythmic movement either.  This was a violent, bowel-rattling movement that was as subtle as raping a washing machine. On top of this, he was giggling the whole time.  So, during the whole movie, all I could do was concentrate on this creepy bastard’s insane cackling and spastic body movements.  What was really freaky though (aside from this goofy fuck giggling nonstop) was that whenever somebody in the movie died, he would get really excited and bounce back and forth even more violently, laughing even louder.

I was positive this psycho was going to start stabbing people or, even worse, start stabbing me, so, needless to say, I was on edge the whole time.  This meant that I could not savor the subtle nuances of Crank High Voltage, nor could I completely soak in the artfully constructed mis en scene.  Luckily, the movie was about 40 minutes long, so I hightailed out of there before this wacky fuck started emulating the shit he was seeing onscreen.

And, while these two occurances might not seem too frightening, just put yourself in my cheap shoes.  Add an alcohol buzz to the mix, a bad day on top of that, and stir everything with heinous back cramps and I can tell you that you'd be wishing for, in the least, a relaxing film experience.

The weirdest incident, by far, happened a few days ago, when I raced to the bathroom to take my standard “pre-movie piss,” and encountered a grown man in an open stall who, while sitting on the toilet, was delicately shaving his face with a razor.  Beside him, resting on the piss-drenched floor, was a large, black garbage bag.  As I calmly attempted to “drain the snake,” the man tried to get my attention by screaming “Hey!”

For a moment, I considered pretending I was deaf, but in order to do sign language I needed both hands free and, unfortunately; one of my hands was preoccupied.

“Hey!”

My bodily fluid froze, as though somebody shot a load of liquid nitrogen into my expanding bladder.

“Hey!”

Don’t turn around, Gabe.Don’t turn around.

“Hey!”

I turned around.

“You hungry, man?”

“Uh…not really.”

“C’mon, bro.You gotta be.”

“No.  I just ate.  Had a big, steamy bowl of chili.”

“Hold on.  Hold on.”

Then the dude rested his razor on his lap and cautiously bent over, digging inside the garbage bag.  “Check this out,” he said, yanking out handfuls of frozen burritos.  “I got burritos, man.  Any kind you want.  Beef, chicken, chorizo.  Only a buck apiece.”

Why does this shit happen to me?

“No thanks,” I said.  “It’s cool.  I’m just not hungry.  It was a pretty big bowl of chili.”

“But it’s a good deal, man.  Just a buck.”

Briefly, I thought maybe this guy was selling drugs; that “burrito” was code or slang for heroin or smack or something.  But, I could tell from the wrapping and the size of the burritos (as well as the brand name) that he was, in fact, just selling burritos.

My brain nearly short-circuited.

Why is this guy selling burritos out of a movie theater bathroom stall?  And who the hell wants a burrito that’s been marinating in a puddle of piss?  And why the hell is he shaving?  And why am I still holding my dick?

Needless to say, I quickly got the hell out of there and proceeded to search for another bathroom, hoping that I would not run into another person selling tacos or nachos in the shitter.

So, there you go.  I hope wherever you see movies, you don’t have to deal with gang rumbles, psychotic freaks or burrito-wielding bathroom shavers.  Me, I’m happy staying at home with my popcorn and lube.

P.S.  Feel free to share some horror stories in my blog forum.  I'd like to hear what kind of wacky shit you guys have encountered.

Have any of you ever been trapped in a room with a cat in heat?  It’s not fun.  Aside from the ball-shriveling noises tunneling out of their little kitty throats, they tend to get a tad “frisky” with various objects; both mobile and immobile; both living and inanimate.  Without getting too graphic, let me just say that I am never using my toaster oven again.

So, the other night, while I was busy toweling off my lampshades and disinfecting my appliances, I began zoning off; my mind dissipating into the ether, exploding into a cacophony of previously unheard of sounds and a kaleidoscope of previously unseen images.  As my consciousness soared higher and higher, I eventually encountered a blinding light that stung my senses, filling my floating being with wonder.  And answers.  Answers to everything that had stumped the world since the Big Bang.  Revelations so overwhelming that my earthbound body shuddered.  I soon realized that, for once in my miserable life, I had the answers to everything.

Then I caught a whiff of stagnant cat shit and was brought back down to earth.

But, in those brief moments of higher consciousness, I was shown the secrets to all of life’s mysteries.  Through some sort of cat-piss-induced Astral Projection, I had traveled across multiple planes of reality and, most shockingly of all, I had completely figured out everything that had confounded me about the television show Lost.  Solving every mystery and every maze-like story arc. I knew everything.  No stone was left unturned.

Unfortunately, I don’t remember any of it.  But boy, do I ever remember that stench of cat shit!

Anyway, since I cannot relate to you any of my stunning revelations, I’ll just talk about my experiences with the show and the strange, magnetic pull it has had on me.

For the uninitiated or for those who have a life, Lost is a sci-fi, horror, romance, drama, cooking show about a bunch of fucked-up people who get in a plane crash and land on a mysterious island.  Those are the only types of islands nowadays.  Mysterious ones.

The show is crammed full of shit that every man, woman and hermaphrodite can get behind.  For instance, the show has a big fat guy, polar bears, time travel, flashbacks, flash-forwards, a smoke monster, hot chicks, hot guys, bloody noses, lottery numbers, one half of comedy legends Cheech and Chong (here’s a hint: it’s not Chong), pregnant chicks, a dog, Tom Cruise’s cousin, the stepfather from the movie The Stepfather, the Lawnmower Man from the movie The Lawnmower Man, Peggy Bundy, a donkey wheel, dead people, ghosts, ghostly dead people, a heroin-addicted Hobbit, alcoholism, con-men, con-women, a guy who never ages and who might have permanent eyeliner on, a guy named Ben Linus who never blinks, people getting shot, people getting hung, people falling out of windows, people hooking up and people getting tortured.  Did I also mention there’s a big fat guy?

What’s not to love?

The show is alternately and sometimes simultaneously, engaging and infuriating.  With every question answered, there are at least twenty questions asked.

And yet, I keep watching.  I even watch the reruns, which, as far as I can tell, are shown out of order.  This makes things even more confusing, since I cannot wrap my head around the show even when it’s aired chronologically.

For the most part, the characters are interesting and, when they’re not, they usually end up being killed off.  Unfortunately, not all shows are produced this way, since I’d give my left ass-cheek to see those annoying skanks on Rock of Love get thrown out of a window.

I love Lost.

My infatuation with the show blossomed about three years after it premiered.  Like many fans, I rented the first season out of boredom and was quickly hooked.  I’d get to the end of an episode and think, Okay, just one more, then I’ll eat some beans.

I never ate those beans.

Why?  ‘Cause I kept watching.

Just one more episode, then I’ll brush my teeth.

I never brushed my teeth.

Days went by and my hygiene faltered.  I stunk.  I lost weight.

Then came the Season 2 set.  And then the Season 3 set.

Weeks drifted along and my hair became a nest of nappy clumps, where small woodland creatures roamed and copulated between my tangled follicles.  Eventually, I sprouted a thick, voluminous beard that offset my dainty, girlish looks.  While switching discs in my DVD player, I began noticing how long and jagged my fingernails were growing; jutting out from my fingertips like yellow razors.

Phone calls went unanswered.  Knocks at the door were ignored.

Somewhere towards the end of Season 3, my mind started calculating various facts; making note of how many times Sawyer arbitrarily removed his shirt and how many times Desmond said “Brother,” and how many times Sayid talked about not killing people…then killed somebody. And how many times John Locke had been shot and paralyzed…then was miraculously healed.  And how many times Michael screamed “Walt!” and how many times Claire screamed “My baby!”  And the list went on…

Between episodes, I drew up charts and graphs.  I consulted notes that I had scribbled on pieces of toilet paper from the bathroom and had carved into my coffee table with blunt butter knives.  Piles of labyrinthine information that I poured over with horrifying obsessiveness.

Who are Adam and Eve?  Why does Richard Alpert never age?  Is Michelle Rodriguez actually a man?

At one point, I put Disc 2 of Season 3 on pause and quickly scavenged my apartment for sustenance.  My food supply had dwindled and luckily, I found a crusty Cheeto under the cushion of my couch, as well as a fuzzy french fry that was stiffer than a porno star’s hard-on.

Just one more episode.

Eventually, I pried open my front door and shielded my eyes from the harsh glow of the mid-morning sun.  On sore, atrophied legs, I wandered the streets in a daze.

People cowered in fear at the sight of me.  Children ducked behind their parent’s legs as I shambled by.  Senior citizens pointed at me and stared; terror and shock written on their wrinkled faces.

Somehow, I made it to Blockbuster Video.  With pocketfuls of change in my tattered pants, I shoveled out dimes, nickels and quarters onto the front counter.  Then I left with Season 4 tucked underneath my arm and stumbled back to my hermetically-sealed apartment.

That was months ago.  I’m much better now.  I finally caught up with the seasons and am no longer a slave to the discs.  Now I’m a Wednesday night slave, which is when current episodes air.

Thankfully, I have begun eating real food again.  I also resumed cleaning myself and my legs no longer wobble when I stand or walk.  No more crawling on the floor for me!

Sadly, Lost, Season 5, is coming to an end (as is the series next year).  If you haven’t seen the show or aren’t caught up, be sure to stock up on supplies before renting and/or buying the DVD sets.  Trust me, you’ll need them.

During the summer hiatus, I plan on dealing with more horny cats.  And maybe this time, when my mind drifts off into other worlds, I will remember all the important things.

Like what the fuck is going on with Lost.