Because then he could become Sgt. Pepper! HA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Right then. I’ve decided to take a different approach here at Fine-Toothed Coombs. Up until this point, there hasn’t been a real “style” per se to my ramblings. I’d pretty much just liquor up and start typing about whatever my whiskey-soaked brain could hold onto at the moment. It’s certainly been fun times (see the final line of the blog before last for what might be the best thing I’ve ever written), but we could all use some structure.
Not a very strong structure, to be honest, but it’s something. From here on, I’m gonna split up blog posts into a few different sections or columns as it were. Pretty much treating my corner of the CHUD blogosphere as my own personal webspace to hit up a couple of different topics. My current life being what it is, I have a lot of time to blog, but I often get too wrapped up in one idea – for instance a movie review – that gets delayed and then I just don’t blog. So now I’ve decided to organize everything here into one of a few different categories. This way I can deliver you some hot, steamy content at least four times a week. You’re excited, I can tell.
There will of course be Movie Reviews, because what’s CHUD without some movie talk, and I’d hope to get at least one of these out per week. I’ve been working on one recently, so look forward to Crank 2: A Bai Ling-ual Bloodfest by Friday. Along these lines, I have a long term series review project that might take over this spot in the week soon enough, but more on that later.
And since I have so much fun writing open letters, there’s probably going to be at least one instance of From the Desk of Devin Coombs each week where I do just that.
Also on the horizon is Let’s Watch _____ where I liveblog about whatever I happen to be watching at the time, be it tv show or movie. Less formal than a full review (no screengrabs, videos, etc.). Mostly, this will just be an easy update to keep me blogging. Just be glad it didn’t start last night, or we would be reading about The Musketeer. Though that movie could actually make for a decent review if I could ever bring myself around to watching it again. We’ll see.
But for now, I’ll leave you with one last new addition to Fine-Toothed Coombs:
Completely True Run-Ins I’ve Had with Celebrities That Are In No Way Falsified. Except When They Are. Which is Always. [i’m not married to this title, btw. Too vague, obviously]
Once, I was attending a small-town school dance where who should I spy but John Lithgow! His hair unkempt, his simple suit rumpled beyond belief, and smelling of what could only be a combination of Southern Comfort and Pine-Sol. I believe they call that a Knob Polisher.
To our shock, Lithgow had not simply come to party. He was in fact preaching about the evils of rock and roll music and it’s corruption of the youth. The general consensus was that he was channeling his fondly remembered turn in Footloose. Nobody quite knew what to do. On the one hand, he was being fairly disruptive. How were the youngsters supposed to dance to the Nickelback in peace? (Nickelback being popular at the time. We were so innocent then). But on the other hand, this was a bonafide celebrity! There was so much we could learn!
My mind raced with potential questions to ask:
“Were those real cliffs in Cliffhanger?”
“What’s Wayne Knight like in person? I bet he’s nice.”
“Do you have an opinion on Van Damme’s Sudden Death? I’m aware you weren’t in it, but I’m writing an op-ed.”
And there I stood, face blank, brain jumbled with questions and queries. Quickly I gathered my wits. It was now or never. Against my body’s every instinct, I made my move, edging closer and closer to Lithgow, casually shoving aside teachers, chaperones, and the occasional pregnant teen.
When at last I found myself next to man of the hour, my body froze again. We locked eyes. His, alight with the fire of relgious passion; mine slightly red from a chipped contact lens. My hands shook. My confidence wavered. Would I falter? Had I gone mute. With my last ounce of courage, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind:
“Would you care to dance?”
His face, which had been contorted into a cruel sneer, softened, if only for a moment. Was this all it took? Is this where the anti-dancing rage had stemmed from? Could it be so simple? It felt so right. He didn’t hate the rhythmic movement of our youth. He simply wanted someone to dance with. I smiled warmly. He began to speak,
“Shut it, Bacon!” And with that, he delivered a right hook that could have belonged to the mighty Thor himself. I awoke two hours later in a dumpster, covered in what appeared to be urine. Spicy, lemon urine.
The moral of the story? Don’t fuck with John Lithgow.