Or

Who Invited God To The Party?

Warning! Parentheses heavy post.

I get older and I hate things more. That seems to be the general rule. I’ve always been a bit a bit on the “You and your friends can go fuck yourself” side of the fence. However, much to my surprise as I get older I seem to get more crotchety, more impatient and climb up way higher on my soapbox. Yet ironically I also seem to be far less willing to do anything to affect change in regard to the things that bother me so deeply. Ahhh, the sweet fucking stinging embrace of our lady of ironic justice.

Things that have climbed deep inside of my craw and laid festering eggs:

1) When the fuck did rock shows get so safe and therefore FUCKING BOOOORING!? Allow me to clarify. I am not talking about the various hardcore shows that go on at the uncountable bars in the area. I’m talking about all ages shows. The shows where kids are in attendance and get the opportunity to witness how visceral and dangerous rock and roll can really be. There was once a time when a punk rock show was NOT the kind of place where parents were comfortable dropping off their kids. It was this kind of environment which helped to ensure that the bulk of the attendees were tenacious little fucks who were going to see live music no matter what kind of bodily risk was involved.
2) Who invited god to the party? Cause it sure as shit wasn’t me. God does not rock. Christianity is not edgy. In fact, organized religion is as close as it comes to an antithesis to rock and roll. IF rock and roll had tenants (which it certainly doesn’t because it’s NOT an organized religion) one of the top on the list would be; “thou shall not worship ANY idols within the church of rock and roll (unless its Lemmy)”. Anytime religion becomes involved in rock and roll in ANY way it should be immediately recognized for what it is (a slick recruitment campaign) and dismissed.
3) Drummers who break down their drums on stage… Fuck me… Look douche bag, I know you’re desperate for attention and you need to milk that stage time so that every lonely insecure woman in the venue will have plenty of time to recognize that you the drummer (and a shitty one at that). But get your fucking shit off the stage. There are other bands here and all we want to do is set up, play, break down and go home so we can watch TV/read comic books/get high/play video games et. all.
4) Ok, here’s the deal; rock and roll has been milked fucking dry. There is nothing new for you to do so stop acting like the horrible little bands you listen to are part of something new. Stop trying to emulate all those shitty musical outfits you love who spend more time applying eyeliner than they do actually listening to (or even playing) music. Just because you have hair in your face does not make you entertaining or worth watching.

Oh, I could go on forever but its time to close up the shop, go home and watch TV/read comic books/get high/play video games et. all.

Discuss.

(addendumB)

I just reread this and… Wow! Thats a spicy meatball. I swear I’m not really that/this angry. I am not going to take this down or edit it in anyway (that would really make Kerouac mad). I wrote it so I must have meant it in some shape or form. However, I would like to make it clear that this was NOT intended to be an indictment  of ANY band in the area. The only bands that I actually see and hang out with I know and like. Otherwise I wouldnt be around them… That does not mean that their arent bands or venues in the area that fit the bill.

None. Nothing. Nothingness.

Blank as fuck…

Fuck.

Perhaps its because I’m a masochist or maybe it’s the fact that I’m the sick sort of soul who sees the magic in the truly horrifying. Regardless there is something truly enchanting about having a shitty job. Aside from the discounts it’s the only thing that explains why I continue to work at a comic book store for minimum wage. The amazing and tragic specimens of humanity that walk through that door make it all worthwhile. One of my most hated and therefore favorite customers is the kind of character I couldn’t come up with on my own even with unlimited amounts of the finest drugs. Allow me to paint the picture for you. About five foot eight inches tall and two hundred eighty pounds. An oversized fanny pack clinging to the underside of his porcine breadbasket which seems to be perpetually wrapped tightly in a purple polo shirt which bears the war wounds of ultimate cheeseburgers of days gone by. Would you expect any less than greasy matted hair? I would assume not. However, allow me to up the anti; mutton chops. This addition baffles me every time I see his nauseating visage. Is this suppose some sort of hip garnish who’s intent is to convince you that you’re not eating uncooked pig intestine stuffed with Crisco? Its not working. His fingernails are unreasonably long. I can only assume the reason for the protractedness of his nails is to accommodate the accumulation of the crusted sewage that won’t fit in his fanny pack. Granted he is not a pretty man but it only gets better from there. He has a ritual. He comes in at the same time every day without fail. He walks directly to the new comic book rack and picks up the most recent Scooby Doo comic book or some comparable children’s title. Then its right over to the adult section where he carefully chooses very important titles like Sticky, Blowjob or Anal Intruders From Mars. It’s a horrifying and amazing juxtaposition. This is where our interaction begins which is just as ritualized as the rest of his weekly trip to the comic book store. I tell him how much he owes for his smut and children’s books and he gives me the money. I carefully drop the change into his palm with the intent of avoiding direct contact with his disgusting paw. Then even if I already have his comics in a bag and have them held out for him to snatch up and run off to mothers basement he says the same thing,

“I’ll take a bag. If you got one.”

Yes I have a bag. Its right here. Your comics are inside of it. Take it and go away.

People are magic and horrible. If you’re disgusted take a moment and let it wash over you’re pallet like a fine wine. There’s a reason Da Vinci liked to work in grotesques.

Six months have passed since the rage virus has annihilated the British Isles. The U.S. Army declares that the war against infection has been won, and that the reconstruction of the country can begin. As the first wave of refugees return, a family is reunited–but one of them unwittingly carries a terrible secret. The virus is not yet dead, and this time–showing no outward symptoms–it is more dangerous than ever.

I am of the opinion that if your going to be fan of zombie films you can’t be to picky. Of course the films of Romero and Fulci are easily my favorites of the genre but, if your going to put hard and fast rules on what makes a good zombie flick you’re only going to be able to watch four movies for the rest of your life. 28 Weeks Later lands squarely in the domain of the imperfect yet enjoyable zombie flick. The plot can at times be somewhat contrived and predictable but contains enough new ideas to keep your interest.

The performances are solid and Walt’s dad does a decent turn as an American helicopter pilot. Director Juan Carlos Fresnadillo and Cinematographer Enrique Chediak do a fairly decent job recapturing the feel that Danny Boyle created for the original film. However there are moments where they seem to go over board. While the original film boasted a highly kinetic look tastefully juxtaposed by stretches of almost frightening calm the sequel tends to take the kinetic look a bit too far. There we’re good sections of the film’s action sequences where I had no idea what was happening on screen. Extreme camera movement can be a highly effective way of creating tension but it’s a fine line. Just as the original film the score by John Murphy goes a long way toward developing the feel of the film

All in all 28 Weeks Later is a good zombie film and well worth the price of admission. It’s a decent story with fair amounts of gore even if you cant exactly see where it’s coming from.