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 wwe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wwe. 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.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The Runaways; A Hardcore Review
Essentially this wasn't so much the story of the all girl rock band, The Runaways, so much as it was the story of Joan Jett and Cherie Curie.
While the look of the film was no doubt "spot on," I couldn't stand this movie. Kristen "Twilight" Stewart had NO FUCKING BUSINESS playing Joan Jett. Just cause she's in fucking vogue right now doesn't mean she was the right person to play Joan. And yeah, she looks a little like Jett in the 70's, but to me that AIN'T fucking good enough. The shitty thing, to me, is that she did a good job portraying the first lady of Punk Rock. Kristen Stewart, whether I like it or not is at the very least a decent actress, if not, a really good actress. This role has broken her out of the mold of being Bella, the wishy washy girl from the Twilight saga. And moving out of your comfort zone as an artist is essential for staying fresh and being the best that you can be.
Dakota Fanning plays Cherie Curie, the lead singer of The Runaways. With their meteoric rise to stardom, Curie becomes a drug addict and alcoholic. Fanning, has become a sparkling actress since her debut in "I Am Sam," playing opposite the very retarded Sean Penn.
Alia Shawkat, Pash from Whip It was in this movie, playing Robin. While Rob Zombie's Halloween Laurie Strode, Scout Taylor-Compton played Lita "Kiss Me Deadly" Ford. But the whole movie was spotlighting Joan Jett and her sometimes androgynous relationship with Cherie Curie.
After their Japanese tour, Curie lost it. Began heavily using, and according to the movie, became a Prima donna. While I am a big Joan Jett fan, I don't claim to know shit about the Runaways. God I so wanted to hate this movie. I really really wanted to. But I couldn't. There's little harder to do in this world than admit you were wrong. Not knowing a lot about the group that made acts like P!NK, Kittie, L7 and Bikini Kill possible should make me a fucking historian. But sometimes the best thing isn't to know all the details, but to just appreciate the music and everything it's done.
This flick was interesting to watch. Gave some much needed background on a truly groundbreaking group. And to my shock and awe had some really tremendous acting from someone I didn't think deserved the part, simply cause I felt she was a "flash in the pan" type star. But I have to say, with all sincerity, that The Runaways was a great flick. And thus brings to mind a truly great moment involving, at the time, two of the top workers in wrestling, Triple H and Mick Foley. After Triple H and Stephanie McMahon got "married" they made Mick Foley's life a living hell, including firing him. Upon an announced locker room wide walkout staged by The Rock, Triple H and Steph were forced to reinstate Foley. The Rock also dictated that there would be a tag team main event featuring Degeneration X versus The Rock, The APA and Mick Foley. The end of the match saw The Rock and Farooq and Bradshaw take out The New Age Outlaws and X Pac. Leaving the champ, Triple H and Mick Foley alone, battling it out for bloody supremacy of the ring. In the end, Hunter delivered a "Pedigree" to Foley, putting him through the announce table. As Triple H walked up the ramp, Mick, who's Mankind mask was ripped off during the fight, was bloodied and staring wild eyed at the retreating champion. The moment came the next night, or "officially" on Thursday night Smackdown, when in the ring celebrating his utter defeat of Foley, Triple H declared victory in their war. But out came Mick, in his Mankind outfit from Monday, bloody shirt included. Mick said, after the beating he took a few days before, he wasn't ready to take on the young champion at that Sunday's Royal Rumble pay per view. As he began taking off his mash and tie, he stated, "I'm in no condition to fight you on Sunday..... (Triple H smiles) but I know someone who is.... and I think you know him real well." Tearing open his shirt, he reveals his famous, "Wanted: DEAD" Cactus Jack t-shirt. BANG BANG!
While the look of the film was no doubt "spot on," I couldn't stand this movie. Kristen "Twilight" Stewart had NO FUCKING BUSINESS playing Joan Jett. Just cause she's in fucking vogue right now doesn't mean she was the right person to play Joan. And yeah, she looks a little like Jett in the 70's, but to me that AIN'T fucking good enough. The shitty thing, to me, is that she did a good job portraying the first lady of Punk Rock. Kristen Stewart, whether I like it or not is at the very least a decent actress, if not, a really good actress. This role has broken her out of the mold of being Bella, the wishy washy girl from the Twilight saga. And moving out of your comfort zone as an artist is essential for staying fresh and being the best that you can be.
Dakota Fanning plays Cherie Curie, the lead singer of The Runaways. With their meteoric rise to stardom, Curie becomes a drug addict and alcoholic. Fanning, has become a sparkling actress since her debut in "I Am Sam," playing opposite the very retarded Sean Penn.
Alia Shawkat, Pash from Whip It was in this movie, playing Robin. While Rob Zombie's Halloween Laurie Strode, Scout Taylor-Compton played Lita "Kiss Me Deadly" Ford. But the whole movie was spotlighting Joan Jett and her sometimes androgynous relationship with Cherie Curie.
After their Japanese tour, Curie lost it. Began heavily using, and according to the movie, became a Prima donna. While I am a big Joan Jett fan, I don't claim to know shit about the Runaways. God I so wanted to hate this movie. I really really wanted to. But I couldn't. There's little harder to do in this world than admit you were wrong. Not knowing a lot about the group that made acts like P!NK, Kittie, L7 and Bikini Kill possible should make me a fucking historian. But sometimes the best thing isn't to know all the details, but to just appreciate the music and everything it's done.
This flick was interesting to watch. Gave some much needed background on a truly groundbreaking group. And to my shock and awe had some really tremendous acting from someone I didn't think deserved the part, simply cause I felt she was a "flash in the pan" type star. But I have to say, with all sincerity, that The Runaways was a great flick. And thus brings to mind a truly great moment involving, at the time, two of the top workers in wrestling, Triple H and Mick Foley. After Triple H and Stephanie McMahon got "married" they made Mick Foley's life a living hell, including firing him. Upon an announced locker room wide walkout staged by The Rock, Triple H and Steph were forced to reinstate Foley. The Rock also dictated that there would be a tag team main event featuring Degeneration X versus The Rock, The APA and Mick Foley. The end of the match saw The Rock and Farooq and Bradshaw take out The New Age Outlaws and X Pac. Leaving the champ, Triple H and Mick Foley alone, battling it out for bloody supremacy of the ring. In the end, Hunter delivered a "Pedigree" to Foley, putting him through the announce table. As Triple H walked up the ramp, Mick, who's Mankind mask was ripped off during the fight, was bloodied and staring wild eyed at the retreating champion. The moment came the next night, or "officially" on Thursday night Smackdown, when in the ring celebrating his utter defeat of Foley, Triple H declared victory in their war. But out came Mick, in his Mankind outfit from Monday, bloody shirt included. Mick said, after the beating he took a few days before, he wasn't ready to take on the young champion at that Sunday's Royal Rumble pay per view. As he began taking off his mash and tie, he stated, "I'm in no condition to fight you on Sunday..... (Triple H smiles) but I know someone who is.... and I think you know him real well." Tearing open his shirt, he reveals his famous, "Wanted: DEAD" Cactus Jack t-shirt. BANG BANG!
Friday, October 1, 2010
Catwoman Selina's Big Score; A Hardcore Review *SPOILERS*
Darwyn Cooke, the mind behind Justice League New Frontier and the relaunch of the Silver Age DC characters hits up Catwoman's door. And believe it or not, this tale only has about six pages with Selina dressed as Catwoman. Now before I continue, I am a fan of Catwoman and a lot of female characters. As I myself am striving to have quality characters in my comics, most of whom are female. There's not a whole lot about this book that I liked. I'm not a big fan of Cooke's art style in this piece. I've seen other stuff he's done that I enjoy, but this just felt sloppy and rushed. And that's fine if there are panels or even pages that seem that way, but not the whole book. I get that the pace was supposed to be fast, as it was a heist story. But there are things that need to be fast and other things that need to be paced better. You can have a fast paced story and still have detail in your work. It just seemed that Cooke glossed over a lot of the essential details in the whole Catwoman mythos. First, she's a loner. She doesn't work well with others. And that doesn't mean a lack of a supporting cast, it means she doesn't have a team. But for some reason, it was necessary to have members she worked with, including an inside girl, who was fucking Falcone, literally. This woman worked the streets as a high priced hooker, in order to support her child and her mother? I don't get it. Is that supposed to purvey a strong female character? I don't know. I have been told my female characters are not strong females, cause they are not typical female roles. I accept the critique. But it's 2010, I don't feel tradition gender roles really apply to being a strong female character other than having a vagina and ovaries.
Anyways, as with movies and animation there's a thing called pacing. And I don't feel this book hit the mark with one exception. The ACTUAL heist. It was six pages of pure, seriously break neck pacing. And the artwork helped immensely with that. Cooke laid out those pages beautifully, all in a double page spread format that showed off multiple facets of the action going on.
But then the main premise of the story in Selina Kyle, showing up after apparently offing herself, as Catwoman and most people believing her dead. So, Catwoman had hung up her whip and ears for a bit in order to get her self back on track. And she needed a big score to make that happen. So she reaches out to her hooker friend, Chantaal, who gets iced in the process. And then bumps uglies with a guy who's old enough to be her grandfather. I get the whole idea, younger, hot woman, older guy. But c'mon, the core fanboys are between the ages of 18 and 35. I don't know how many of them wanna see Catwoman, who I can safely say most of us have had sexual fantasies about bangin' Moses. Cause, there's a lot of things in this world that aren't sexy. And a hot chick banging an old guy is one of them. Liver spots, denture cream and condoms DO NOT belong together.
It is also apparent by this tale, that Selina is not a very strong woman if she's staking claim to guys over and over. Cause this book also begins (I think) the relationship between her and Slam Bradley, the ancient father of her child. She's got a bat and geriatric fetish.
In that, after the big score, pretty much everyone ends up dead, except Selina and Slam. And there's fucking sexual tension between them. Directly after people get their heads shot off. All this from the guy who helped relaunch the DC Silver Age and re-established Catwoman. I mean he did the writing and art for the first few issue of the relaunch back in the early 2000's. And it was excellent. This however, was like canned cat food. Moist, smelly and probably tastes bad if you eat it.
I give this grade not a specific moment in hardcore (or more accurately, lack there of) wrestling history, but more of a belief structure one man has about the business. Wrestlers have to be big. And when I say big, I'm not just talking about their size, but also their lack of talent and ability in the ring and on the mic. The most current example we are forced to tivo through is The Great Khali, Dalip Singh. I am sure he is a real sweetheart and a good guy, but for the love of Will Eisner (God) get him the fuck off of my television screen. From his lackadaisical punches and bogus finishing move, The Khali Vise Grip, a double handed skull crush, to the way he walks. The man has no spine. And I don't mean that in the figurative sense, but the literal sense. It looks like all of his vertebrae are fused. Making his walk look very awkward and painful. I think they even had subtitles for a while when he gave promos, cause he sounds like he has a large cock in his mouth when he speaks. And this is not an attack on a foreigner, I could have just as easily picked super sized disappointments like Mark Henry, The Avalanche, Earthquake or Giant Gonzales. I chose Khali, cause well he's current and he sucks.
Anyways, as with movies and animation there's a thing called pacing. And I don't feel this book hit the mark with one exception. The ACTUAL heist. It was six pages of pure, seriously break neck pacing. And the artwork helped immensely with that. Cooke laid out those pages beautifully, all in a double page spread format that showed off multiple facets of the action going on.
But then the main premise of the story in Selina Kyle, showing up after apparently offing herself, as Catwoman and most people believing her dead. So, Catwoman had hung up her whip and ears for a bit in order to get her self back on track. And she needed a big score to make that happen. So she reaches out to her hooker friend, Chantaal, who gets iced in the process. And then bumps uglies with a guy who's old enough to be her grandfather. I get the whole idea, younger, hot woman, older guy. But c'mon, the core fanboys are between the ages of 18 and 35. I don't know how many of them wanna see Catwoman, who I can safely say most of us have had sexual fantasies about bangin' Moses. Cause, there's a lot of things in this world that aren't sexy. And a hot chick banging an old guy is one of them. Liver spots, denture cream and condoms DO NOT belong together.
It is also apparent by this tale, that Selina is not a very strong woman if she's staking claim to guys over and over. Cause this book also begins (I think) the relationship between her and Slam Bradley, the ancient father of her child. She's got a bat and geriatric fetish.
In that, after the big score, pretty much everyone ends up dead, except Selina and Slam. And there's fucking sexual tension between them. Directly after people get their heads shot off. All this from the guy who helped relaunch the DC Silver Age and re-established Catwoman. I mean he did the writing and art for the first few issue of the relaunch back in the early 2000's. And it was excellent. This however, was like canned cat food. Moist, smelly and probably tastes bad if you eat it.
I give this grade not a specific moment in hardcore (or more accurately, lack there of) wrestling history, but more of a belief structure one man has about the business. Wrestlers have to be big. And when I say big, I'm not just talking about their size, but also their lack of talent and ability in the ring and on the mic. The most current example we are forced to tivo through is The Great Khali, Dalip Singh. I am sure he is a real sweetheart and a good guy, but for the love of Will Eisner (God) get him the fuck off of my television screen. From his lackadaisical punches and bogus finishing move, The Khali Vise Grip, a double handed skull crush, to the way he walks. The man has no spine. And I don't mean that in the figurative sense, but the literal sense. It looks like all of his vertebrae are fused. Making his walk look very awkward and painful. I think they even had subtitles for a while when he gave promos, cause he sounds like he has a large cock in his mouth when he speaks. And this is not an attack on a foreigner, I could have just as easily picked super sized disappointments like Mark Henry, The Avalanche, Earthquake or Giant Gonzales. I chose Khali, cause well he's current and he sucks.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Swamp Thing (1982); A Hardcore Review *SPOILERS*
What is there to say about a movie that utilizes supernatural chicanery via a rubber suited swamp monster with a hard plastic molded face? What can I say about it? Adrienne Barbeau and her amazing perm didn't save this movie. However, the skinny little black kid who owned and operated his own general store couldn't save it either. And then he got killed. Face down in a swamp boat. But the big green machine feels for all living things and used his super powers to bring the kid back to life and then later save the chesty heroine. Strange thing is, I've never read Swamp Thing, nope, not even Alan Moore's run. Cause well, Alan Moore is a wordy fucking Brit. And if I'm gonna read a comic book, I wanna read a comic book. If I wanna read a novel then I'll read an Alan Moore comic book. So, honestly I have no idea if Swampie can even bring people back to life. I do know he can travel through time and even went and saw Christ being crucified. Which is really weird since there is no God and obviously that means there was no Jesus.
Onto the movie in question. Alec Holland is a botanist working for the United States government. I can already see the magnitude of suckage this is gonna bring me. Holland and his pretty little sister, who Barbeau is jealous of cause she thinks she's Alec's wife, make up this magic glowing ooze, that seems like it should be in a canister that gets dropped into the sewers of New York onto a foursome of reptiles that explodes. Yes folks, this amazing plant fertilizer explodes. I wonder if Timothy McVeigh watched this movie at all. So then the explosion is sort of like the Big Bang for plants as it begins growing pine branches out of the wooden floor. So there's these other guys with guns who come in. One of them has a perm like Ms. Barbeau's and they threaten Dr. Holland and his sister. They gun her down in cold blood and take the notebooks containing all of Holland's knowledge. Let's just say they were really small notebooks. He grabs the goo and runs away, trips and blows up. Gets up off the ground completely engulfed in flames. Runs out of the wooden lab. Great idea, right. And into the swamp, where, even under water he continues to blow up.
Um then some really boring stuff happens. And the badguy is revealed to be Zartan, I mean some dude named Doctor Anton Arcane, who was wearing Ritter's face. Now Ritter was Holland's bodyguard, but apparently he was killed and skinned so Arcane could play dress up. See why this is such a stupid movie is they tried to interject plot. Here's the even more fucked up part. This whole movie was written and driected by Wes Craven. Yes, that Wes Craven, the one who's seemingly given up on telling quality horror stories in order to jump on the 3D bandwagon with "Just Fucking Kill Me Last Summer Already and I'll Scream in the Last House on the Left on Elm Street."
Rubber suits, complete with folds and creases like any good swamp monster. Not to mention Shakespearesque quality dialog by said monster, you know if Shakespear was seriously retarded, stoned and drunk all at the same time. Then Swampie gets his arm cut off, finds out photosynthesis grows said arm back and escapes from the shackles of man, free to destroy his oppressors. Oh wait I mixed this up with Nat Turner's Diary which will be out later this NEVER! Cause no white movie executive would ever tell a story about an oppressed black man who rose up and slaughtered a whole bunch of white people and then was later murdered himself. That would get the darkies thinking. If they could stop talking in the theatre long enough to hear anything.
See that's why this is the Hardcore Review. Cause I'll say shit like that. After a really shitty, and I mean Hulk Hogan like effort, Power Rangers type of final fight scene with Arcane, Alice Cable (Barbeau) doesn't get laid by Swampie, who walks off into the swamp without the theme from the Incredible Hulk playing the in the background.
So the grade for this would probably have to fall in the anals, I mean annals (how ever could I have made that mistake) of a poor young woman named Katie Vick. Now I know what you're thinking and this has nothing to do with a dog killing quarterback who couldn't throw the ball if his life depended on it. It seems Kane, brother of the Undertaker killed a woman while out driving one night when he was on a date. I didn't know they issued driver's licenses to ahem, seven foot tall big red retards like Kane, who at that point couldn't even speak without one of those voice thingies that throat cancer patients use. So she dies, and in a stunning grasp of what the fans want Vince McMahon decides to show a re-enactment of Kane humping the dead body of Katie Vick while she was in her casket. Triple H was feuding with Kane at the time and it was actually Triple H who screwed her brains out. I know Hunter had to have been hating this entire ordeal. But even the son in law to the boss doesn't hold enough stroke to get out of this abortion.
Onto the movie in question. Alec Holland is a botanist working for the United States government. I can already see the magnitude of suckage this is gonna bring me. Holland and his pretty little sister, who Barbeau is jealous of cause she thinks she's Alec's wife, make up this magic glowing ooze, that seems like it should be in a canister that gets dropped into the sewers of New York onto a foursome of reptiles that explodes. Yes folks, this amazing plant fertilizer explodes. I wonder if Timothy McVeigh watched this movie at all. So then the explosion is sort of like the Big Bang for plants as it begins growing pine branches out of the wooden floor. So there's these other guys with guns who come in. One of them has a perm like Ms. Barbeau's and they threaten Dr. Holland and his sister. They gun her down in cold blood and take the notebooks containing all of Holland's knowledge. Let's just say they were really small notebooks. He grabs the goo and runs away, trips and blows up. Gets up off the ground completely engulfed in flames. Runs out of the wooden lab. Great idea, right. And into the swamp, where, even under water he continues to blow up.
Um then some really boring stuff happens. And the badguy is revealed to be Zartan, I mean some dude named Doctor Anton Arcane, who was wearing Ritter's face. Now Ritter was Holland's bodyguard, but apparently he was killed and skinned so Arcane could play dress up. See why this is such a stupid movie is they tried to interject plot. Here's the even more fucked up part. This whole movie was written and driected by Wes Craven. Yes, that Wes Craven, the one who's seemingly given up on telling quality horror stories in order to jump on the 3D bandwagon with "Just Fucking Kill Me Last Summer Already and I'll Scream in the Last House on the Left on Elm Street."
Rubber suits, complete with folds and creases like any good swamp monster. Not to mention Shakespearesque quality dialog by said monster, you know if Shakespear was seriously retarded, stoned and drunk all at the same time. Then Swampie gets his arm cut off, finds out photosynthesis grows said arm back and escapes from the shackles of man, free to destroy his oppressors. Oh wait I mixed this up with Nat Turner's Diary which will be out later this NEVER! Cause no white movie executive would ever tell a story about an oppressed black man who rose up and slaughtered a whole bunch of white people and then was later murdered himself. That would get the darkies thinking. If they could stop talking in the theatre long enough to hear anything.
See that's why this is the Hardcore Review. Cause I'll say shit like that. After a really shitty, and I mean Hulk Hogan like effort, Power Rangers type of final fight scene with Arcane, Alice Cable (Barbeau) doesn't get laid by Swampie, who walks off into the swamp without the theme from the Incredible Hulk playing the in the background.
So the grade for this would probably have to fall in the anals, I mean annals (how ever could I have made that mistake) of a poor young woman named Katie Vick. Now I know what you're thinking and this has nothing to do with a dog killing quarterback who couldn't throw the ball if his life depended on it. It seems Kane, brother of the Undertaker killed a woman while out driving one night when he was on a date. I didn't know they issued driver's licenses to ahem, seven foot tall big red retards like Kane, who at that point couldn't even speak without one of those voice thingies that throat cancer patients use. So she dies, and in a stunning grasp of what the fans want Vince McMahon decides to show a re-enactment of Kane humping the dead body of Katie Vick while she was in her casket. Triple H was feuding with Kane at the time and it was actually Triple H who screwed her brains out. I know Hunter had to have been hating this entire ordeal. But even the son in law to the boss doesn't hold enough stroke to get out of this abortion.
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