So last night some fucking guy thought he was a badass and tried shitting on my comic book. Which he has no doubt, never read, and is seriously jealous of the fact that I can eat whatever I want and not be a fat pathetic loser like he is. I don't give a shit that you're getting married Poncho. You're still a fat fucking clone who's become what he thinks he has to be. You can say shit about me and my hair, the fact that I hang out with a sidekick and that my "comic book that's not going anywhere." But you're a fucking tattoo artist. That's not exactly a tough profession to get into. Hey I have a bunch of friends with ink and friends who are tattoo artists, but let's be honest, it's not rocket science, and you're not saving the fucking world either. Plus I would think, a grown, fat man who dresses up like a Ghostbuster on the weekends would shy away from trying to talk shit. Cause, the pigtails, sidekick, comic book, all a part of who I am at a fucking genetic level. You, you fucking play dress up on the weekends. You're like the goths who haven't realized that the goth movement is long dead. But on to bigger and better things...
Much in the spirit, of Tank Girl, I felt that rant was not only needed, but fucking necessary. I am after all the Hardcore Comic Book Icon, and pigtails or no pigtails, you're still a fat piece of shit who couldn't get laid if he wasn't getting married. So go and fuck yourself, while I run you over with my tank. By which I mean my thighs, which are bigger than your fat fucking head, because I work out porky. Maybe you should take that tattoo gun and ink on some abdominal muscles or something.
So the other week, I read the Apocalypse trade of Tank Girl, where Tank is being hunted by doomsday cultists. Supposedly there comes a messiah. And with it, possibly the end of the world. Tank Girl is restless, doesn't want pizza, beer or sex, and is in a malaise like state where she vegges out and watches daytime TV, the most evil of all evils.
She then leaves the confines of her home, fires off a shot in her tank and continues on till she meets up with a "standing on one leg guru" in a funky top hat who tried to get Tank Girl to join her in her one leg standingness. After which the leaders of the world, including long thought dead, Hitler and recently thought dead, Princess Diana show up. And Tank knocks Lady Di the fuck out. Not to mention Jet and Sub Girl show up to ride the rocket to Utopia. How the fuck a submarine travels in a desert is beyond me, but it's a comic book that has never made sense and that's why people love it. One of the all time most respected indie characters of ALL TIME still hasn't lost her edge, even when Hewlett and Martin aren't working on the project she stars in hits the racks. Tank learns she is pregnant, and after hitching a ride to Utopia, her and her friends party like rock stars, and then she gives birth to a half baby/half tank. Turns out Tank Girl cheated on old Booga with her tank? But she was drunk and I'm sure that makes it justifiable.
Tank Girl is the kind of comic book we need more of. Bizarre, fucked up and just plain strange shit with an edgy attitude that has always been is something we need more of in this world. I know if you're reading my reviews, you know I get tired of the run of the mill primary color boy scouts running rampant on your local comic store racks. When you're unhappy with the the regurgitated characterizations that lost their luster decades ago, take the money out of your wallet, AND BUY SOMETHING ELSE! We vote with our money. Money that is hard to come by and is very precious in today's world thanks to the powers that be. And I don't limit that to your "elected" government officials but more so directed to the corporate giants who only want your money and are currently gouging your pay check. Living pay check to pay check is tough, and we need something to raise our spirits in times like these where bullshit like a Royal Wedding is headline news, movies being Americanized from amazing International ORIGINAL versions, music that I wouldn't wipe my ass with and story lines from twenty years ago pass as brand new, edgy and best selling on the comic scene. You say, "FUCK YOU, I'm gonna read, watch, listen to what I wanna listen to." Your money and more importantly, time is much to valuable to waste on common, trivial shit like that. Show your support to the little guys in the industry who bust their asses even harder than the regular pros, cause quite often to support ourselves we work a full time job, AND then put out REAL cutting edge stories and art that gets swept under the carpet cause we don't have marketing bank like Disney and Warner Brothers backing us up.
In 2002, a monster arrived on the wrestling scene. He was a former NCAA heavyweight wrestling champion. His name, Brock Lesnar. Yeah, that Brock Lesnar, the same one who at one time was the youngest WWE World Champion at 25 years of age. Although Vince has never acknowledged Mikey Whipwreck winning the ECW World Heavyweight Championship in 1995 at less than 22 years of age from the Sandman and then defended it against the future Stone Cold Steve Austin. Anyways, after winning the WWE title, Lesnar set his sights on the most respected veteran in the locker room, The Undertaker. Pushing the "Dead Man," to his emotional limits by attacking him in front of his then pregnant wife Sara. You know the little blond who got Taker to ink her name across his throat. Beating Taker to a bloody pulp and breaking his right hand, then Smackdown general manager Stephanie McMahon, order the two behemoths to fight for the belt inside Hell in a Cell. And to up the ante, she ruled that Taker would be allowed to keep the cast on his broken hand for the match.
The match went off and there was a bucket of blood spilled, mostly from the Champion Lesnar and his manager Paul Heyman. There was nothing but utter chaos in the match, including Taker's cast being ripped off of his hand, Lesnar foiling Taker's move of "old school," and the bloodied, beleaguered champion hitting the F-5 to finish the Dead Man.
Showing posts with label hell in a cell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hell in a cell. Show all posts
Friday, April 29, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The Quitter; A Hardcore Review
This has been a long fucking time coming. Harvey Pekar's, "The Quitter," another autobiographical look at the life of one Harvey Pekar. After writing a litany of his life, and working with his wife, Joyce Brabner (who will be at this year's San Diego Comic Con)n "Our Cancer Year," Pekar has decided to grace us with his WHOLE life story, up to, and including his run on American Splendor. Pekar delves into his youth, where he was a street fighter at a very young age, to a young man who had an impeccable recall of memory in high school and college.
Pekar takes us through his work in his families grocery, to his stint in the Navy, to his run in college, to the part in his life where we all met him. When he met Robert Crumb, and was enamored with the idea of comic books. But the whole time we feel like we're a part of Harvey's life. Pekar is a spinner of words unmatched by few others.
Obviously, as I have said, "The Quitter," is written by none other than Harvey Pekar. And it is illustrated by the incomparable Dean Haspiel. I purchased this book, when I was still going to a local shop that I had not yet run a foul of (for the comic I work on and supposedly my aggressive sales tactics to the the staff) years ago. And I saw Dean Haspiel at a signing at Isotope Comic Book Lounge back during the weekend of APE Con 2009. Sadly, I did not know about it in advance and did not bring my copy of the book along with me.
Haspiel's artwork rendered in a series of varying styles, brings Pekar's life to, well, life. The visage of a young Pekar rumbling through the streets of Cleveland from his youth through all the times he quit. And that's what makes this book so fucking compelling. Pekar, is just like all of us. He's quit the majority of his jobs, and his thought up futures. All day long we're inundated with the stories of mother fucking LeBron James, who's never once given up on his road to the NBA. But, he did give up on the Cleveland Cavaliers in his quest to become this generation's Michael Jordan. We've been indoctrinated with the visage of Donald Trump, who never gave up on his path to being the 2012 Republican nominee for the presidency. However, he's failed at being a business tycoon, a casino owner, a reality show star and making us believe he has hair. We're all quitters. Whether we admit it or not. Whether we know it or not. And Pekar and Haspiel make it ok to be a quitter.
Pekar is one of my heroes. He's made me a believer. Because of Pekar, I have found a love for the autobiographical comic book, as well as the "slice of life" comic book. And Haspiel has made me love the line work and variation one can scribble in one story. It all makes me feel like what I do is good, and a part of the comic book industry. Pekar gives me strength towards working on my own creations, and allows me to look proudly into the masses and say, "FUCK YOU" to all of those who just don't get it. He makes me realize that not everyone is going to like my work, and I am fine with it. My work, like that of Harvey Pekar's, is not for everyone. And if it was, it would most likely be drivel and tripe for the masses. Sure, it would make more money, but it WOULD SUCK, cause it would be cookie cutter in format and characterization. And I'm not looking to be the next Spider-Man or Batman. As much as there are stories I love, FUCK THOSE MOTHER FUCKERS! FUCK THOSE TIGHTS WEARING DOUCHEBAGS! GADGET HAVING MOTHER FUCKERS! PEKAR DON'T HAVE WEB SHOOTERS! NASH DOESN'T HAVE A FUCKING UTILITY BELT. In terms of writing the everyman, Harvey Pekar IS GOD. And that's saying something, cause Pekar is Jewish and I'm an Atheist.
There's little that can compare with this amazing piece of work that encompasses the entire lifetime of a man, not only who I admire, but respect. And Harvey Pekar's, "The Quitter" gets an amazing piece of hardcore wrestling history... the very first Hell in the Cell. At the then World Wrestling Federation's October 1997 pay per view, In Your House: Bad Blood, the then European Champion Shawn Michaels fought the Phenom, The Undertaker in a match that had a massive cage, complete with a top encompass the entire ring. It saw, Shawn Michaels drop an elbow, land Sweet Chin Music, and beat the shit out of a cameraman, all in order to escape the Deadman. Michaels got color and became a veritable Frankenstein in the days following, and went through the Spanish Announce table. In the end, the Deadman, lay dead after taking a Tombstone Piledriver from his "little" brother Kane, who debuted by ripping the door of the Cell off its hinges allowed The Heart Break Kid to gain the pinfall. All while wearing the "Crimson Mask" and being near unconscious.
Pekar takes us through his work in his families grocery, to his stint in the Navy, to his run in college, to the part in his life where we all met him. When he met Robert Crumb, and was enamored with the idea of comic books. But the whole time we feel like we're a part of Harvey's life. Pekar is a spinner of words unmatched by few others.
Obviously, as I have said, "The Quitter," is written by none other than Harvey Pekar. And it is illustrated by the incomparable Dean Haspiel. I purchased this book, when I was still going to a local shop that I had not yet run a foul of (for the comic I work on and supposedly my aggressive sales tactics to the the staff) years ago. And I saw Dean Haspiel at a signing at Isotope Comic Book Lounge back during the weekend of APE Con 2009. Sadly, I did not know about it in advance and did not bring my copy of the book along with me.
Haspiel's artwork rendered in a series of varying styles, brings Pekar's life to, well, life. The visage of a young Pekar rumbling through the streets of Cleveland from his youth through all the times he quit. And that's what makes this book so fucking compelling. Pekar, is just like all of us. He's quit the majority of his jobs, and his thought up futures. All day long we're inundated with the stories of mother fucking LeBron James, who's never once given up on his road to the NBA. But, he did give up on the Cleveland Cavaliers in his quest to become this generation's Michael Jordan. We've been indoctrinated with the visage of Donald Trump, who never gave up on his path to being the 2012 Republican nominee for the presidency. However, he's failed at being a business tycoon, a casino owner, a reality show star and making us believe he has hair. We're all quitters. Whether we admit it or not. Whether we know it or not. And Pekar and Haspiel make it ok to be a quitter.
Pekar is one of my heroes. He's made me a believer. Because of Pekar, I have found a love for the autobiographical comic book, as well as the "slice of life" comic book. And Haspiel has made me love the line work and variation one can scribble in one story. It all makes me feel like what I do is good, and a part of the comic book industry. Pekar gives me strength towards working on my own creations, and allows me to look proudly into the masses and say, "FUCK YOU" to all of those who just don't get it. He makes me realize that not everyone is going to like my work, and I am fine with it. My work, like that of Harvey Pekar's, is not for everyone. And if it was, it would most likely be drivel and tripe for the masses. Sure, it would make more money, but it WOULD SUCK, cause it would be cookie cutter in format and characterization. And I'm not looking to be the next Spider-Man or Batman. As much as there are stories I love, FUCK THOSE MOTHER FUCKERS! FUCK THOSE TIGHTS WEARING DOUCHEBAGS! GADGET HAVING MOTHER FUCKERS! PEKAR DON'T HAVE WEB SHOOTERS! NASH DOESN'T HAVE A FUCKING UTILITY BELT. In terms of writing the everyman, Harvey Pekar IS GOD. And that's saying something, cause Pekar is Jewish and I'm an Atheist.
There's little that can compare with this amazing piece of work that encompasses the entire lifetime of a man, not only who I admire, but respect. And Harvey Pekar's, "The Quitter" gets an amazing piece of hardcore wrestling history... the very first Hell in the Cell. At the then World Wrestling Federation's October 1997 pay per view, In Your House: Bad Blood, the then European Champion Shawn Michaels fought the Phenom, The Undertaker in a match that had a massive cage, complete with a top encompass the entire ring. It saw, Shawn Michaels drop an elbow, land Sweet Chin Music, and beat the shit out of a cameraman, all in order to escape the Deadman. Michaels got color and became a veritable Frankenstein in the days following, and went through the Spanish Announce table. In the end, the Deadman, lay dead after taking a Tombstone Piledriver from his "little" brother Kane, who debuted by ripping the door of the Cell off its hinges allowed The Heart Break Kid to gain the pinfall. All while wearing the "Crimson Mask" and being near unconscious.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Watchmen; A Hardcore Review
On Friday March 6, 2009, there was a historical event that came upon the movie and comic book industry....
Alan Moore and Dave Gibbon's Watchmen hit theatres. Me and my crew went at half after midnight on the day in question.
What followed is three hours of some of the most captivating feature film I have ever seen. The idea that this was an impossibility only a few years ago, and then chided by Alan himself, as he broke ties with DC and said none of his comics needed to be turned into movies. Well he was right about League, that was a pile of shit, and he had his name attatched to that one.
Watchmen is one of the most loved and best selling graphic novels of all time. One of a handfull of graphic novels taught in college classrooms. It encompases the worst feelings of the cold war and the bitter hideousness of McCarthyism.
In short, the movie was a huge success. The soundtrack rocked. They intermingled 80's pop with modern covers and seemed it beautifully. The visuals were spot on. The costume redesigns were great.There were a few things that were superfluous: like the seemingly endless sex scene abourd the Owl-jet. It was the type of scene that makes you feel like you were watching Roadhouse with your mom. That level of discomfort. The build up on Rorschach was great. Jackie Earle Haley was awesome. As if this was the role he was born for (it reminded me of Brandon Lee and the Crow). The only other man who could have been Rorschach was that crazy fucker Danny Bonaduce. The prison scene made my night with Rorschach uttering the most famous words of the series, "I'm not locked in here with you! You're locked in here with me!"
Beautiful.
And man Golden Age Silk Specter may have been hotter than Modern Age Silk Specter. But that whole pin up doll thing really works for me. Not to mention she was a redhead. NOICE!
I give Watchmen a blast from the past... Mankind being chokeslamed through the top of the Cell onto the cold hard, unforgiving canvas below, with a steel chair crashing onto his head.
Alan Moore and Dave Gibbon's Watchmen hit theatres. Me and my crew went at half after midnight on the day in question.
What followed is three hours of some of the most captivating feature film I have ever seen. The idea that this was an impossibility only a few years ago, and then chided by Alan himself, as he broke ties with DC and said none of his comics needed to be turned into movies. Well he was right about League, that was a pile of shit, and he had his name attatched to that one.
Watchmen is one of the most loved and best selling graphic novels of all time. One of a handfull of graphic novels taught in college classrooms. It encompases the worst feelings of the cold war and the bitter hideousness of McCarthyism.
In short, the movie was a huge success. The soundtrack rocked. They intermingled 80's pop with modern covers and seemed it beautifully. The visuals were spot on. The costume redesigns were great.There were a few things that were superfluous: like the seemingly endless sex scene abourd the Owl-jet. It was the type of scene that makes you feel like you were watching Roadhouse with your mom. That level of discomfort. The build up on Rorschach was great. Jackie Earle Haley was awesome. As if this was the role he was born for (it reminded me of Brandon Lee and the Crow). The only other man who could have been Rorschach was that crazy fucker Danny Bonaduce. The prison scene made my night with Rorschach uttering the most famous words of the series, "I'm not locked in here with you! You're locked in here with me!"
Beautiful.
And man Golden Age Silk Specter may have been hotter than Modern Age Silk Specter. But that whole pin up doll thing really works for me. Not to mention she was a redhead. NOICE!
I give Watchmen a blast from the past... Mankind being chokeslamed through the top of the Cell onto the cold hard, unforgiving canvas below, with a steel chair crashing onto his head.
Observe and Report; A Hardcore Review
What more can I say except, sure was a lot of cock in this movie.
Once again Seth Rogen is pretty damn hilarious. He's the new Vince Vaughn in terms of being the regular, quasi out of shape funny guy.
Any way, he plays Ronnie, this dilusional mall security guard who dreams of being a savior. The movie opens with a slow motion montage of the goings on in his mall. The second it ends, the hilarity ensues. A chubby mid lifer runs amoke in the mall parking lot, flashing female patrons and yelling some pretty heinous shit at them.
Bring in Ronnie and his random crew of motley misfits, a greasey whatever the fuck that guy was and the Chinese twins who have as much a hard on for firearms as my crazy, dilusional cousin, who interestingly enough is also a security guard with dilusions of gradeur.
Ronnie's other dream includes plowing the cosmetics counter whore, played almost too well, by Anna Faris.C'mon, this chick works at every fucking mall in the free world. And ladies, if you cannot identify this bimbo, well then it's because it's you.
After quite a bit of craziness including having to see Ray Liotta's fucked up mug and his partner's obscene hairline and Steven Segal-like ponytail for far too long. The dialog was pretty good, with Liotta playing the hardnosed, battle hardened detective who fails at every attempt to hold back the "retard" with the badge.
The movie culminates with something you see coming a mile away, even if it is tiny and almost obscured by errant belly flab. As well as the whole romance thing that according to Rich from KRQ's John Jay and Rich, Roy Orbison could see coming. Only to be corrected by John Jay and the internet.
Make sure you have fun while watching this movie, but please don't take your "Fifi" loving soon to be twelve year old daughters.... SANDRA! Jesus, and then she has the audacity to get mad at me for saying cock like twenty times afterwards. Fucking douchebag. I swear to god.
Now, onto the grade this movie receives. Observe and Report deserves the biggest car crash award it can possibly receive. And that would be once again dipping back into the classic match from King of the Ring 1998 where upon Mick Foley flew off the top of the Cell and crash landed through the Spanish announce table and halfway rolling under the guardrail behind them.
Once again Seth Rogen is pretty damn hilarious. He's the new Vince Vaughn in terms of being the regular, quasi out of shape funny guy.
Any way, he plays Ronnie, this dilusional mall security guard who dreams of being a savior. The movie opens with a slow motion montage of the goings on in his mall. The second it ends, the hilarity ensues. A chubby mid lifer runs amoke in the mall parking lot, flashing female patrons and yelling some pretty heinous shit at them.
Bring in Ronnie and his random crew of motley misfits, a greasey whatever the fuck that guy was and the Chinese twins who have as much a hard on for firearms as my crazy, dilusional cousin, who interestingly enough is also a security guard with dilusions of gradeur.
Ronnie's other dream includes plowing the cosmetics counter whore, played almost too well, by Anna Faris.C'mon, this chick works at every fucking mall in the free world. And ladies, if you cannot identify this bimbo, well then it's because it's you.
After quite a bit of craziness including having to see Ray Liotta's fucked up mug and his partner's obscene hairline and Steven Segal-like ponytail for far too long. The dialog was pretty good, with Liotta playing the hardnosed, battle hardened detective who fails at every attempt to hold back the "retard" with the badge.
The movie culminates with something you see coming a mile away, even if it is tiny and almost obscured by errant belly flab. As well as the whole romance thing that according to Rich from KRQ's John Jay and Rich, Roy Orbison could see coming. Only to be corrected by John Jay and the internet.
Make sure you have fun while watching this movie, but please don't take your "Fifi" loving soon to be twelve year old daughters.... SANDRA! Jesus, and then she has the audacity to get mad at me for saying cock like twenty times afterwards. Fucking douchebag. I swear to god.
Now, onto the grade this movie receives. Observe and Report deserves the biggest car crash award it can possibly receive. And that would be once again dipping back into the classic match from King of the Ring 1998 where upon Mick Foley flew off the top of the Cell and crash landed through the Spanish announce table and halfway rolling under the guardrail behind them.
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