No matter what day you set off to come home it always feels like Sunday. Life beckons around the corner. The world, your world kept rotating while you were gone and now you’re going to have to catch up and re-assimilate. Sure you could stay in New Orleans walking around town with a paper-bag-wrapped bottle in your fist, but sooner or later that gets old.
Driving home the list of things you have to do starts flashing in your head and you start wondering why the hell you thought it would be okay to disappear for a week and blow a ton of money. To get away from a girl? To get away from yourself? I wanted to think there was a chance I wasn’t going to come back. Like there’d be a dramatic moment where I’d say “You know what guys, you go, I’m going to stay here,” like some cowboy movie where one of them mixes with the natives in the village and decides to live among them. But I’m not that kind of guy I guess.
A night in Virginia and few more uncomfortable restaurant stops peppered the dismal ride home. O’Leary drove almost the entire way back. He enjoyed it, and I think he wanted to get home and two nights later we were. My ears hadn’t stopped ringing but now I was standing in the house. Alone. Quiet. I thought this is what had been missing the last week: a moment to myself. It was 8p.m. on a Friday and I had to get the hell out of here.
I started making calls: Anyone was an option. Is anything going on tonight? Anything at all? There had to be one last weird drunken night I could squeeze out of the universe. I’d make up for it tomorrow , once I had some proper sleep and a day to re-adjust I’d be fine. But not now. Not the first night back in Jersey. I knew she was out there with big plans and there was no way I was staying home and the panic of staring at four walls, inside my head for an entire evening made for a terrifying reality.
I got in the car and drove south. I just had to be out. The radio blasting, windows open anything to try and summon the faint enthusiasm that somehow, mystically, everything was going to be alright.
Elliot Krause called back. He and his girlfriend were meeting some of her friends. An hour later I was sipping a beer at a bar called Bourbon Street in Westwood New Jersey, barely able to hear myself think. Finally burned out.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Thursday, March 31, 2011
the regroup
already an uremitting failure.
we'll get somewhere, just never thought it would take this long.
wasting youth on more ammo for the great big whatever.
we'll get somewhere, just never thought it would take this long.
wasting youth on more ammo for the great big whatever.
Part Two: nola
We arrived on Bourbon Street for prime time. Televisions were set up outside of a few shops and stores showing the firey footage of the freshly uncoiled Iraq War. Occasionally people would stop stare at the screen for a moment then resume tossing beads at anything resembling a girl. And I was no better, trying to squash the dread of potential generation-long foreign offenses on top of the already screaming head creeps I brought down here with me.
The swirl of the night started quickly at the Blacksmith Shop which claims to be the oldest bar in America. I remembered this place well from the first time I was in town, we stopped in during a ghost tour and were advised to try the Voodoo Daiquiri which tasted like a grape slushy with the faintest hint of alcohol which turned out to be everclear. The place was candle-lit except for behind the bar and the flood light shining on Robert Duval playing piano and singing songs on a P.A. system filtered through hell.
We worked our way up and down, in and around, the street. The Shim-Sham Club was gone, so we found other stops -A bright-blue lit jazz club for a few minutes (“hey man, you fuck with coke?”), then lured into a strip club across the street where the girls ride the brass pole upside down 10 feet in the air, outside again into the fresh air until a 7-foot silhouette in a ratty cocktail dress and musk-smelling perfume is pulling me into the direction of another bar until O’Leary swooped in and pulled me in the opposite direction (“That’s a drag bar, that was a guy”) until finally we arrived and parked ourselves at the Dungeon; three chambers of goth-bar. The outside resembled a haunted house, fake steel gates and castle doors, the few windows were covered in red gels keeping out the horrible horrible day light to all the vamp dwellers brooding inside.
I walked in with a drunken chip on my shoulder: there were places like this in Jersey and all I could think about was how much she liked them. She went to them a few times and gushed about how weird and wonderful it all was. Strobe lights and smoke machines, leather and heavy makeup, can’t get a drink or hear anything except the bass speakers blowing your ear drum out. Everyone is thin and pretty and impressed with their own supposed weirdness and I’m sitting at the bar, fat and jealous sipping watered down whiskey at $10 a cup, un-ironically watching Oprah.
That is what I expect this place to be and at first, it looks like it is.
It’s not. With the exception of one shaved headed, black eyelinered, leather and chains pirate bouncing around in his own private mosh-pit (to fucking Disturbed of all things) the place is pretty relaxed but it’s too late, I’m in a foul mood. Now I’m wondering what she is doing back in Jersey. What kind of pale-faced, coke-eyed demons are chatting her up in between songs, pushing up against her and sweating their vampire-DNA onto her. Of course she is pushing back. She is absorbing it all, squeezing out all but the faintest memories of me, until I just become some guy she used to date. And suddenly the trip is a failure. Maybe I thought she’d be wondering if I was doing these horrible thing the whole time I was gone: What kind of trouble I could be getting into gliding down the country with a madman and Irishman. But here I was shrinking inside a little plastic cave booth.
The night goes on and shifts as it does and suddenly I don’t give a fuck about ex’s or if I ever go back to New Jersey. Paul is upstairs (chamber #2) talking up a blond visiting from North Carolina. O’Leary and I are leaning over the bar downstairs (chamber #1) talking to two of the bartenders who were technically on duty, but the place was empty, it was after all, a Tuesday and who the hell knew what time it was.
Finally it was closing time. The bartenders told us they were going to Johnny White’s, we started slowly shuffling towards the door when I realized there was a spotlight shining brightly in from outside. This turned out to be the sun. It was 6:30 in the morning. We followed them over to Johnny White’s the bar the bartenders went to when they got off. The streets were prettying themselves up for work, shop owners hosing all kinds of evidence away from their building and into the gutters. The smells of garbage ran across the air; it was enough to sober a man up. Johnny White’s was dark but not dark enough, we had a beer or two, the bartenders all knew each other and we quickly became bleary eyed, word slurring afterthoughts. Soon we were in a cab heading back to the hotel with O’Leary in the front seat talking to the driver and the two of them going back and forth cracked me up until the point of a headache. We made it back in time for the continental breakfast which was held in an empty office with microwaved pancakes and waffles and several varieties of cereals. I sipped a coffee and went back to the room. Turned the air-conditioning on full blast, pulled the drapes closed and wrapped myself in a blanket on the floor, having lost the drawing for a bed. I needed to sleep. It almost felt like being home.
The swirl of the night started quickly at the Blacksmith Shop which claims to be the oldest bar in America. I remembered this place well from the first time I was in town, we stopped in during a ghost tour and were advised to try the Voodoo Daiquiri which tasted like a grape slushy with the faintest hint of alcohol which turned out to be everclear. The place was candle-lit except for behind the bar and the flood light shining on Robert Duval playing piano and singing songs on a P.A. system filtered through hell.
We worked our way up and down, in and around, the street. The Shim-Sham Club was gone, so we found other stops -A bright-blue lit jazz club for a few minutes (“hey man, you fuck with coke?”), then lured into a strip club across the street where the girls ride the brass pole upside down 10 feet in the air, outside again into the fresh air until a 7-foot silhouette in a ratty cocktail dress and musk-smelling perfume is pulling me into the direction of another bar until O’Leary swooped in and pulled me in the opposite direction (“That’s a drag bar, that was a guy”) until finally we arrived and parked ourselves at the Dungeon; three chambers of goth-bar. The outside resembled a haunted house, fake steel gates and castle doors, the few windows were covered in red gels keeping out the horrible horrible day light to all the vamp dwellers brooding inside.
I walked in with a drunken chip on my shoulder: there were places like this in Jersey and all I could think about was how much she liked them. She went to them a few times and gushed about how weird and wonderful it all was. Strobe lights and smoke machines, leather and heavy makeup, can’t get a drink or hear anything except the bass speakers blowing your ear drum out. Everyone is thin and pretty and impressed with their own supposed weirdness and I’m sitting at the bar, fat and jealous sipping watered down whiskey at $10 a cup, un-ironically watching Oprah.
That is what I expect this place to be and at first, it looks like it is.
It’s not. With the exception of one shaved headed, black eyelinered, leather and chains pirate bouncing around in his own private mosh-pit (to fucking Disturbed of all things) the place is pretty relaxed but it’s too late, I’m in a foul mood. Now I’m wondering what she is doing back in Jersey. What kind of pale-faced, coke-eyed demons are chatting her up in between songs, pushing up against her and sweating their vampire-DNA onto her. Of course she is pushing back. She is absorbing it all, squeezing out all but the faintest memories of me, until I just become some guy she used to date. And suddenly the trip is a failure. Maybe I thought she’d be wondering if I was doing these horrible thing the whole time I was gone: What kind of trouble I could be getting into gliding down the country with a madman and Irishman. But here I was shrinking inside a little plastic cave booth.
The night goes on and shifts as it does and suddenly I don’t give a fuck about ex’s or if I ever go back to New Jersey. Paul is upstairs (chamber #2) talking up a blond visiting from North Carolina. O’Leary and I are leaning over the bar downstairs (chamber #1) talking to two of the bartenders who were technically on duty, but the place was empty, it was after all, a Tuesday and who the hell knew what time it was.
Finally it was closing time. The bartenders told us they were going to Johnny White’s, we started slowly shuffling towards the door when I realized there was a spotlight shining brightly in from outside. This turned out to be the sun. It was 6:30 in the morning. We followed them over to Johnny White’s the bar the bartenders went to when they got off. The streets were prettying themselves up for work, shop owners hosing all kinds of evidence away from their building and into the gutters. The smells of garbage ran across the air; it was enough to sober a man up. Johnny White’s was dark but not dark enough, we had a beer or two, the bartenders all knew each other and we quickly became bleary eyed, word slurring afterthoughts. Soon we were in a cab heading back to the hotel with O’Leary in the front seat talking to the driver and the two of them going back and forth cracked me up until the point of a headache. We made it back in time for the continental breakfast which was held in an empty office with microwaved pancakes and waffles and several varieties of cereals. I sipped a coffee and went back to the room. Turned the air-conditioning on full blast, pulled the drapes closed and wrapped myself in a blanket on the floor, having lost the drawing for a bed. I needed to sleep. It almost felt like being home.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Part One: The Nashville Demolition Derby
Whatever you do never get back into town on a Friday night without plans for the evening. I didn’t realize this until the car dropped me off and pulled away.
“Wait, you guys want to go somewhere and get a drink or anything?”
I forgot to ask.
I thought I wanted to get home, drop my bags, sleep on my bed for a day or two and brace myself for the upcoming reality of having, at some point, to go back to work. I was already in trouble with them; supposed to be back on Wednesday, but driving can be an inexact science, especially in the spring, especially when you’re young and drunk and still have some money left in your bank account. So I called in from outside the Best Western and talked to Rob. “Listen, the weather down here is insane, we can’t drive in this. I’m probably not going to be back until Friday, maybe Monday, I’ll make the time up or I can lose two sick days or however you want to do it.”
This was the second call I’d made to work on this trip, the first was outside the Waffle House in Alabama while a cop followed me slowly in his cruiser as I crossed the parking lot to buy cigarettes at a gas station, and then back towards the restaurant. I was dressed strangely, partly out of habit and partly out of necessity (not being able to dig too deep into my bag from the backseat) - a black pullover, long navy cargo shorts and black boots. I was not from Seattle and it was not 1991 but a strong case could be made for a man living in denial of those facts. I pulled out the cell phone and called in to shoot the shit with Rob, until the cop accepted I wasn’t going to spray paint the lyrics to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on any nearby walls or cars and moved on.
Ramone and O’Leary were in the Waffle House ordering. I walked in, and I swear “Sweet Home Alabama” was on the jukebox. Maybe I just remember it that way, but I’m fairly certain it’s also true. The waitress, an older gal, walked over and was as sweet as a slice of peach cobbler, until we ordered; maybe our gruff Yankee accents betrayed us as her demeanor soured shortly after we started ordering. We stopped in Nashville for a night. One of these days I’ll have to make time to actually go to Nashville instead of stop there on the way to somewhere else. We got into the hotel - sitting on the bed, ordering room service and getting hammered while watching TV seemed like a good idea but eventually I was dragged out.
We drove into what looked like the heart of the town during a fantastic lighting show that never produced any rain. The rest of the night plays like a film strip running off the reel: bright yellow lights, the electric blue Bell South sign, and Printers Alley with dozens of faces, bars and shops whirling by. We stopped in a bar called Bourbon Street and slunk our way up to the balcony to watch some guitarist wail away. We nodded at each other “ehhh…pretty good, pretty good,” but in truth we wanted to like everything and it made little difference if guy was channeling Hendrix or was just some guy who tried learning the live versions of Allman Brothers songs so he could look like a genius every Friday and Saturday night, this was the beginning of our little odyssey and everything had a positive shine about it.
The place was dark and blurry, like walking around in a vague memory. We left because we couldn’t hear each other and there were too many places to go for us to get bogged down in one for too long. The next place to register anything upon playback was an underground pub, which was very, well, pub looking; brass and wood everywhere, Kelly green walls, but the lights were far too bright to hide blemishes or bloodshot eyes betrayed by overconsumption. There were girls in this bar, but unlike most bars the devil resided at the end of this one- in a pin striped suite, complete with walking stick and a round bowler cap.
He was slightly heavy but not fat, a strand of black hair occasionally escaping from out of the hat and a thin goatee painted around his mouth. Had we been in Brooklyn I would have written him off as a hipster creep on his way to a jazz bar but this gentleman fancied himself the unofficial mayor of these here parts. “You might say I’m kind of a big deal ‘round here,” he said in his slow southern drawl. In no condition to judge age at that moment I’d guess he was slightly older than us, which is to say late-20’s, maybe, maybe early-30’s. The suit was sharp, there was no denying that, but there was something slightly pathetic about this fellow: he was hanging on at the end of the bar with a slight buffer between him and a throng of girls, and lucky us as it proved to be the only section of the bar we could slide up to and order drinks. We nodded politely and made small talk with him for a few minutes:
“Hi. Jersey. Just got in. Only tonight. Bourbon Street. New Orleans….”
“Well you boys might want to check out Legends Corner over on Broadway, they got some good bands, good food,” he started but it was too late.
Paul Ramone was already chatting up the nearest girl. Shane O’Leary quickly followed. It was a contrast of styles- Ramone was neatly pressed- all blond-blue-eyed buttoned-up thrift store charm. O’Leary on the other hand had a black AC DC shirt draped over his hulk-shoulders, family-crest tattoos pouring out from under the sleeves. He was polite and witty. Personable.
Within ten minutes the devil had been boxed out of his section and was leaning hard against the wall. Eventually he left, presumably to go back to the mayor’s mansion, though I have no idea- maybe he was a big deal who, with one phone call could have had our brains beaten in, but you don’t think about such things when you’re chasing a good time.
After a quick stream of relief off a nearby bridge we ended up at a pool hall. It was late. Club music. Blue and purple neon lights. More girls. Maybe they were the same girls; at this point their faces were spinning carousels. Then finally it hit the point when you know the night is over. Things are closing/people are leaving. A pool game ends and maybe a friend throws a look at you that they want to leave. However it hit, it did – a record scratch of a moment that was obvious to all involved.
“Well if you want, we’ll be here tomorrow night.”
“Baby, we’re leaving tomorrow.”
Oh.
Well in that case- it was nice meeting you. I hope you have a good time in New Orleans, or good luck with law school, or I hope your surgery goes well. Whatever glad tidings need a bow put on them at the end of a night of casual conversations full of lies and unnecessary honesty in the hopes of deeply connecting with someone it’s very unlikely you’ll ever see again, just because it makes for a good sad story to tell the next time you meet someone.
“Wait, you guys want to go somewhere and get a drink or anything?”
I forgot to ask.
I thought I wanted to get home, drop my bags, sleep on my bed for a day or two and brace myself for the upcoming reality of having, at some point, to go back to work. I was already in trouble with them; supposed to be back on Wednesday, but driving can be an inexact science, especially in the spring, especially when you’re young and drunk and still have some money left in your bank account. So I called in from outside the Best Western and talked to Rob. “Listen, the weather down here is insane, we can’t drive in this. I’m probably not going to be back until Friday, maybe Monday, I’ll make the time up or I can lose two sick days or however you want to do it.”
This was the second call I’d made to work on this trip, the first was outside the Waffle House in Alabama while a cop followed me slowly in his cruiser as I crossed the parking lot to buy cigarettes at a gas station, and then back towards the restaurant. I was dressed strangely, partly out of habit and partly out of necessity (not being able to dig too deep into my bag from the backseat) - a black pullover, long navy cargo shorts and black boots. I was not from Seattle and it was not 1991 but a strong case could be made for a man living in denial of those facts. I pulled out the cell phone and called in to shoot the shit with Rob, until the cop accepted I wasn’t going to spray paint the lyrics to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on any nearby walls or cars and moved on.
Ramone and O’Leary were in the Waffle House ordering. I walked in, and I swear “Sweet Home Alabama” was on the jukebox. Maybe I just remember it that way, but I’m fairly certain it’s also true. The waitress, an older gal, walked over and was as sweet as a slice of peach cobbler, until we ordered; maybe our gruff Yankee accents betrayed us as her demeanor soured shortly after we started ordering. We stopped in Nashville for a night. One of these days I’ll have to make time to actually go to Nashville instead of stop there on the way to somewhere else. We got into the hotel - sitting on the bed, ordering room service and getting hammered while watching TV seemed like a good idea but eventually I was dragged out.
We drove into what looked like the heart of the town during a fantastic lighting show that never produced any rain. The rest of the night plays like a film strip running off the reel: bright yellow lights, the electric blue Bell South sign, and Printers Alley with dozens of faces, bars and shops whirling by. We stopped in a bar called Bourbon Street and slunk our way up to the balcony to watch some guitarist wail away. We nodded at each other “ehhh…pretty good, pretty good,” but in truth we wanted to like everything and it made little difference if guy was channeling Hendrix or was just some guy who tried learning the live versions of Allman Brothers songs so he could look like a genius every Friday and Saturday night, this was the beginning of our little odyssey and everything had a positive shine about it.
The place was dark and blurry, like walking around in a vague memory. We left because we couldn’t hear each other and there were too many places to go for us to get bogged down in one for too long. The next place to register anything upon playback was an underground pub, which was very, well, pub looking; brass and wood everywhere, Kelly green walls, but the lights were far too bright to hide blemishes or bloodshot eyes betrayed by overconsumption. There were girls in this bar, but unlike most bars the devil resided at the end of this one- in a pin striped suite, complete with walking stick and a round bowler cap.
He was slightly heavy but not fat, a strand of black hair occasionally escaping from out of the hat and a thin goatee painted around his mouth. Had we been in Brooklyn I would have written him off as a hipster creep on his way to a jazz bar but this gentleman fancied himself the unofficial mayor of these here parts. “You might say I’m kind of a big deal ‘round here,” he said in his slow southern drawl. In no condition to judge age at that moment I’d guess he was slightly older than us, which is to say late-20’s, maybe, maybe early-30’s. The suit was sharp, there was no denying that, but there was something slightly pathetic about this fellow: he was hanging on at the end of the bar with a slight buffer between him and a throng of girls, and lucky us as it proved to be the only section of the bar we could slide up to and order drinks. We nodded politely and made small talk with him for a few minutes:
“Hi. Jersey. Just got in. Only tonight. Bourbon Street. New Orleans….”
“Well you boys might want to check out Legends Corner over on Broadway, they got some good bands, good food,” he started but it was too late.
Paul Ramone was already chatting up the nearest girl. Shane O’Leary quickly followed. It was a contrast of styles- Ramone was neatly pressed- all blond-blue-eyed buttoned-up thrift store charm. O’Leary on the other hand had a black AC DC shirt draped over his hulk-shoulders, family-crest tattoos pouring out from under the sleeves. He was polite and witty. Personable.
Within ten minutes the devil had been boxed out of his section and was leaning hard against the wall. Eventually he left, presumably to go back to the mayor’s mansion, though I have no idea- maybe he was a big deal who, with one phone call could have had our brains beaten in, but you don’t think about such things when you’re chasing a good time.
After a quick stream of relief off a nearby bridge we ended up at a pool hall. It was late. Club music. Blue and purple neon lights. More girls. Maybe they were the same girls; at this point their faces were spinning carousels. Then finally it hit the point when you know the night is over. Things are closing/people are leaving. A pool game ends and maybe a friend throws a look at you that they want to leave. However it hit, it did – a record scratch of a moment that was obvious to all involved.
“Well if you want, we’ll be here tomorrow night.”
“Baby, we’re leaving tomorrow.”
Oh.
Well in that case- it was nice meeting you. I hope you have a good time in New Orleans, or good luck with law school, or I hope your surgery goes well. Whatever glad tidings need a bow put on them at the end of a night of casual conversations full of lies and unnecessary honesty in the hopes of deeply connecting with someone it’s very unlikely you’ll ever see again, just because it makes for a good sad story to tell the next time you meet someone.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Eating Thunder/Crapping Lightning
It's time for a long overdue rant fest about the Rocky Franchise. I feel like I might have already done this before so forgive me if I'm repeating myself. Blame AMC they're marathoning the entire series, sans Rocky Balboa from a couple of years ago.
But don't worry I saw that one.
I have this theory and I feel pretty good about it: There's only really 3 Rocky movies.
-Rocky 1 & 2 are pretty much the same movie except Rocky wins in part 2.
-Rocky 3 & 4 are pretty much the same movie - in 3 Rocky loses and Mickey dies then Rocky wins. In 4 Apollo loses and dies then Rocky wins.
Oh yeah spoiler alert.
-Rocky 5&6 are about Rocky being broke and not fighting anymore but returning at other peoples urging to take on someone much younger which he eventually does for various reasons.
The last two are actually the murkiest. It's like post boxing life and then post-post boxing life. I guess it's supposed to be post Adrian life. Adrian is dead in the last one yet Paulie has beaten the odds and is still around. They own or work at a restaurant. They must own it because Rocky gives one of his old opponents a job in the kitchen. That whole thing bothers me because I refuse to believe that no network would hire an ex-champ, who essentially ended the Cold War to call fights for them. And who wouldn't want to watch a movie about Rocky calling fights on TV? But whatever. As of Rocky V he is broke, (thanks Paulie) and back to wearing his old leather jacket and fingerless gloves which is a far cry from part 3 when his hair is feathered and he's draped in matching beige overcoats and gloves and silk pajama pants.
I don't really have the problems with V that everyone semms to. I mean it's bad, don't get me wrong, Tommy Morrison isn't much of thespian (in fact if you want to read something nuts http://tinyurl.com/4zkuzty) Mickey's a ghost, and the fighting promoter is so over-the-top (speaking of which I might drag Over The Top into this.) it's embarrassing and the soundtrack is so drenched in bad early 90's hip hop that I remembered what my 8th grade classroom smelled like, which brought on a whole slew of other issues but that's beside the point. V is bad but it's sort of watchable and the last movie goes a long way fixing what was wrong with it. In the last film Rocky isn't getting beat up by Mr. T or Drago or even crazy ol' Tommy "the Machine" Gunn. (Or even his opponent in the movie Mason "the Line" Dixon who has the dumbest name out of all of them) . Nope, life is kicking the shit out of Rock in this one, and it's kind of a sad movie, and you kind of expect him to die in it, (though having two fighters die in exhibition fights in one franchise would suggest that it is an epidemic, which, you know, as far as I know, it's not) . But Rocky doesn't die which opens up the possibility for yet another one but I hope Stallone just makes 6 more Expendables movies. If for no other reason than at least we know some one is keeping an eye on Dolph Lungren.
Now, let me get the first two out of the way; Rocky is Rocky. I have nothing bad to say about it. It looks a little dated but it sucks you in and you kind of get hooked on it. All of them do really but this started it all and it was good movie. It wasn't corny. Apollo Creed was a great character and that made it even better. In fact I think Apollo was the linchpin in the whole series. Once he got his head caved in everything lost it's steam. Apollo was insecure but he showboated, he was multi-dimensional for a boxing movie, you were rooting for Rocky because he was humble, and simple, an underdog and for all those reasons but if Apollo was fighting anyone else you'd be rooting for Apollo. At least I'd be. So while I don't really like II that much I get that there was no point in making it unless Rocky was going to beat him. It had some good moments, but the tone is pretty much the same as the first one. which, isn't a bad thing, it just makes it very indistinct. It should also be noted that Rocky is already talking retirement in II.
Which brings us to III and IV
I watched some of III last night and realized that Eye of the Tiger is playing throughout at least 45 minutes of that movie. It's at the beginning it's at the end it's in the training sequences. It's everywhere. This might account for why I like this movie and why it might be my second favorite in the series. Mick dies and that's a bummer but you know, I don't want to wash it off to he was old, but he was old. Burgess Meredith however lived until 1997 which means he could have been in all the sequels up until Balboa . I mean he was a ghost in V but c'mon. Mick in Russia? That could have been it's own movie. Of course if Mick doesn't die then Apollo can't train Rocky, if Apollo doesn't train Rocky then we, the audience don't have the greatest cut-off-at-the-belly-shirted-high-socked-short-shorts-running-into-the-ocean-for-a-splash-fight-man-hug in the history of cinema. Let us not forget a young pre-Hulkamania Hulk Hogan as Thunderlips wearing lifts on his boots and calling Rocky "meatball" and beating up cops and fans until the ref finally calls the match. Then he poses for a Polaroid. There's Mr. T in his feathered earring/gold chained/felt vest pinnacle. In fact Mr. T, ahem, Clubber Lange, yelling "Hey woman, hey woman" at Adrian is one of the funniest scenes in any movie ever. Mickey should have had Adrian call him up one night and tell him she was up for it, just as a distraction if he was so worried that Rocky wasn't ready. Ah, but Mick was tired by this point and was ready for retirement. And let us not forget the real star of the film, a 1000 foot statue of Rocky in front of the museum where he so famously ran up those steps. It's amazing that the mayor of Philadelphia knew about that and that the high school marching band knew to play "Gonna Fly Now" because Rocky was listening to it on his I-pod when he was training.
Anyway,
III is the end of the serious Rocky stuff from the first two films. They try to account for it by showing Rocky glamming it up on the cover of magazines and doing magazine ads and hanging out with the Muppets but the whole series really just went Hollywood, baby. Which was fine. It was the 80's. Have a good time. And it was a dumb fun movie.
Then there was IV . It's too bad no one is going to read this because I'd love to have the Four-debate. I like watching it because it's fucking hysterical. And I have another theory that is entirely possible: If Eye of the Tiger is on the IV soundtrack instead of III maybe it's a better movie. I can't be sure. I suppose I could cue it up the next time I watch IV (tonight?) and listen to it over the training montage instead of that Survivor sequel (it's called Burning Heart I'm listening to it now, it's describing the plot of the movie, in fact here treat yourself http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yL3lJfpenAc or there's always this gem http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1oDTNEEu3Rw&feature=player_embedded if you can't get enough).
Now to be fair Adrian probably looks best of all in IV and of course we get the Stallone training beard to point out that while Dolph Drago is getting pumped full of shit and has the full power of the government making him into a T-800, Balboa is just using a few piles of a rocks as weights and jogging in the snow up mountains to train. And there's another weird thing about this movie that I'm probably going to fumble and fuck up but let's give it a shot: Obviously it's a giant spoonful of propaganda and whatever, every bad guy in the 80's was Russian, but they were trying to show that Rocky, training on his own, was an individual and fighting to avenge the death of his friend, not necessarily national pride. Drago only fought for his country, or so you think. For some reason the crowd turns on him half-wary through the fight, probably because he didn't put the 40-year-old 5"5 man away in the first or second round and the Reds start liking this spunky little American southpaw. At some point the Premier or whatever they were calling the thinly veiled Gorbachav looking fellow comes over and wants to know why he hasn't won yet and Drago picks him up by the throat and says something like "I fight for me!" which completely turns the crowd on him, which makes sense, he's supposed to be fighting for Mother Russia in their eyes, but then shouldn't we like him more? He's like "Fuck y'all I'm doing this for me now" he is no longer aligned with our common enemy but somehow that just makes him worse. Meanwhile Rocky who was doing it for himself all of a sudden becomes the fucking ambassador from the United Nations. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MsJnxlXepsY)
So there you have it. Rocky goes from breaking fingers for local loan sharks on the streets of Philadelphia to ending the Cold War.
And Apollo dies. Maybe that's why I hated it. I used to not like Empire Strikes Back when I was a kid because Han got frozen in the carbon freeze and I thought he was dead, so maybe it's just leftover childhood trauma. But couldn't Apollo have just been hurt bad? Couldn't he have been in a coma, and then at the end he comes out of it? Eh. That's the 80's for ya. Avenging friend-death was big.
Plus, and lastly, almost every fight these days, and especially ones that split, get a trilogy. How was there no rubber match in the Creed/Balboa or Clubber/Balboa fights. Maybe even especially that one. I get that fine, you couldn't have another movie dedicated to Apollo and Rocky fighting and Apollo retired, fine. But Clubber knocked Rocky out in 2 rounds. Rocky knocked him out in 3 rounds in the rematch. Now, if Clubber has a training staff worth a fuck, they're going to look at the film and realize that Rocky's plan was to tire him out and Clubber is going to hang back in the third fight. Unless Rocky starts taking his shots and yelling "Ain't so bad, ain't so bad" repeatedly. That's hard to put up with after a while and Clubber might just go off. Though I have to say, a third match in a neutral building, with Rocky training to Eye of the Tiger and not some bullshit retread, he might be unstoppable. I guess we'll never know. Although I guess that could be another sequel. Rocky Balboa II? Is that how that would work?
But don't worry I saw that one.
I have this theory and I feel pretty good about it: There's only really 3 Rocky movies.
-Rocky 1 & 2 are pretty much the same movie except Rocky wins in part 2.
-Rocky 3 & 4 are pretty much the same movie - in 3 Rocky loses and Mickey dies then Rocky wins. In 4 Apollo loses and dies then Rocky wins.
Oh yeah spoiler alert.
-Rocky 5&6 are about Rocky being broke and not fighting anymore but returning at other peoples urging to take on someone much younger which he eventually does for various reasons.
The last two are actually the murkiest. It's like post boxing life and then post-post boxing life. I guess it's supposed to be post Adrian life. Adrian is dead in the last one yet Paulie has beaten the odds and is still around. They own or work at a restaurant. They must own it because Rocky gives one of his old opponents a job in the kitchen. That whole thing bothers me because I refuse to believe that no network would hire an ex-champ, who essentially ended the Cold War to call fights for them. And who wouldn't want to watch a movie about Rocky calling fights on TV? But whatever. As of Rocky V he is broke, (thanks Paulie) and back to wearing his old leather jacket and fingerless gloves which is a far cry from part 3 when his hair is feathered and he's draped in matching beige overcoats and gloves and silk pajama pants.
I don't really have the problems with V that everyone semms to. I mean it's bad, don't get me wrong, Tommy Morrison isn't much of thespian (in fact if you want to read something nuts http://tinyurl.com/4zkuzty) Mickey's a ghost, and the fighting promoter is so over-the-top (speaking of which I might drag Over The Top into this.) it's embarrassing and the soundtrack is so drenched in bad early 90's hip hop that I remembered what my 8th grade classroom smelled like, which brought on a whole slew of other issues but that's beside the point. V is bad but it's sort of watchable and the last movie goes a long way fixing what was wrong with it. In the last film Rocky isn't getting beat up by Mr. T or Drago or even crazy ol' Tommy "the Machine" Gunn. (Or even his opponent in the movie Mason "the Line" Dixon who has the dumbest name out of all of them) . Nope, life is kicking the shit out of Rock in this one, and it's kind of a sad movie, and you kind of expect him to die in it, (though having two fighters die in exhibition fights in one franchise would suggest that it is an epidemic, which, you know, as far as I know, it's not) . But Rocky doesn't die which opens up the possibility for yet another one but I hope Stallone just makes 6 more Expendables movies. If for no other reason than at least we know some one is keeping an eye on Dolph Lungren.
Now, let me get the first two out of the way; Rocky is Rocky. I have nothing bad to say about it. It looks a little dated but it sucks you in and you kind of get hooked on it. All of them do really but this started it all and it was good movie. It wasn't corny. Apollo Creed was a great character and that made it even better. In fact I think Apollo was the linchpin in the whole series. Once he got his head caved in everything lost it's steam. Apollo was insecure but he showboated, he was multi-dimensional for a boxing movie, you were rooting for Rocky because he was humble, and simple, an underdog and for all those reasons but if Apollo was fighting anyone else you'd be rooting for Apollo. At least I'd be. So while I don't really like II that much I get that there was no point in making it unless Rocky was going to beat him. It had some good moments, but the tone is pretty much the same as the first one. which, isn't a bad thing, it just makes it very indistinct. It should also be noted that Rocky is already talking retirement in II.
Which brings us to III and IV
I watched some of III last night and realized that Eye of the Tiger is playing throughout at least 45 minutes of that movie. It's at the beginning it's at the end it's in the training sequences. It's everywhere. This might account for why I like this movie and why it might be my second favorite in the series. Mick dies and that's a bummer but you know, I don't want to wash it off to he was old, but he was old. Burgess Meredith however lived until 1997 which means he could have been in all the sequels up until Balboa . I mean he was a ghost in V but c'mon. Mick in Russia? That could have been it's own movie. Of course if Mick doesn't die then Apollo can't train Rocky, if Apollo doesn't train Rocky then we, the audience don't have the greatest cut-off-at-the-belly-shirted-high-socked-short-shorts-running-into-the-ocean-for-a-splash-fight-man-hug in the history of cinema. Let us not forget a young pre-Hulkamania Hulk Hogan as Thunderlips wearing lifts on his boots and calling Rocky "meatball" and beating up cops and fans until the ref finally calls the match. Then he poses for a Polaroid. There's Mr. T in his feathered earring/gold chained/felt vest pinnacle. In fact Mr. T, ahem, Clubber Lange, yelling "Hey woman, hey woman" at Adrian is one of the funniest scenes in any movie ever. Mickey should have had Adrian call him up one night and tell him she was up for it, just as a distraction if he was so worried that Rocky wasn't ready. Ah, but Mick was tired by this point and was ready for retirement. And let us not forget the real star of the film, a 1000 foot statue of Rocky in front of the museum where he so famously ran up those steps. It's amazing that the mayor of Philadelphia knew about that and that the high school marching band knew to play "Gonna Fly Now" because Rocky was listening to it on his I-pod when he was training.
Anyway,
III is the end of the serious Rocky stuff from the first two films. They try to account for it by showing Rocky glamming it up on the cover of magazines and doing magazine ads and hanging out with the Muppets but the whole series really just went Hollywood, baby. Which was fine. It was the 80's. Have a good time. And it was a dumb fun movie.
Then there was IV . It's too bad no one is going to read this because I'd love to have the Four-debate. I like watching it because it's fucking hysterical. And I have another theory that is entirely possible: If Eye of the Tiger is on the IV soundtrack instead of III maybe it's a better movie. I can't be sure. I suppose I could cue it up the next time I watch IV (tonight?) and listen to it over the training montage instead of that Survivor sequel (it's called Burning Heart I'm listening to it now, it's describing the plot of the movie, in fact here treat yourself http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yL3lJfpenAc or there's always this gem http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1oDTNEEu3Rw&feature=player_embedded if you can't get enough).
Now to be fair Adrian probably looks best of all in IV and of course we get the Stallone training beard to point out that while Dolph Drago is getting pumped full of shit and has the full power of the government making him into a T-800, Balboa is just using a few piles of a rocks as weights and jogging in the snow up mountains to train. And there's another weird thing about this movie that I'm probably going to fumble and fuck up but let's give it a shot: Obviously it's a giant spoonful of propaganda and whatever, every bad guy in the 80's was Russian, but they were trying to show that Rocky, training on his own, was an individual and fighting to avenge the death of his friend, not necessarily national pride. Drago only fought for his country, or so you think. For some reason the crowd turns on him half-wary through the fight, probably because he didn't put the 40-year-old 5"5 man away in the first or second round and the Reds start liking this spunky little American southpaw. At some point the Premier or whatever they were calling the thinly veiled Gorbachav looking fellow comes over and wants to know why he hasn't won yet and Drago picks him up by the throat and says something like "I fight for me!" which completely turns the crowd on him, which makes sense, he's supposed to be fighting for Mother Russia in their eyes, but then shouldn't we like him more? He's like "Fuck y'all I'm doing this for me now" he is no longer aligned with our common enemy but somehow that just makes him worse. Meanwhile Rocky who was doing it for himself all of a sudden becomes the fucking ambassador from the United Nations. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MsJnxlXepsY)
So there you have it. Rocky goes from breaking fingers for local loan sharks on the streets of Philadelphia to ending the Cold War.
And Apollo dies. Maybe that's why I hated it. I used to not like Empire Strikes Back when I was a kid because Han got frozen in the carbon freeze and I thought he was dead, so maybe it's just leftover childhood trauma. But couldn't Apollo have just been hurt bad? Couldn't he have been in a coma, and then at the end he comes out of it? Eh. That's the 80's for ya. Avenging friend-death was big.
Plus, and lastly, almost every fight these days, and especially ones that split, get a trilogy. How was there no rubber match in the Creed/Balboa or Clubber/Balboa fights. Maybe even especially that one. I get that fine, you couldn't have another movie dedicated to Apollo and Rocky fighting and Apollo retired, fine. But Clubber knocked Rocky out in 2 rounds. Rocky knocked him out in 3 rounds in the rematch. Now, if Clubber has a training staff worth a fuck, they're going to look at the film and realize that Rocky's plan was to tire him out and Clubber is going to hang back in the third fight. Unless Rocky starts taking his shots and yelling "Ain't so bad, ain't so bad" repeatedly. That's hard to put up with after a while and Clubber might just go off. Though I have to say, a third match in a neutral building, with Rocky training to Eye of the Tiger and not some bullshit retread, he might be unstoppable. I guess we'll never know. Although I guess that could be another sequel. Rocky Balboa II? Is that how that would work?
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
MOre Snow For Your Brain
And over and over again, the worst of it's past now. The internet said.
But it still looks pretty bad.
We're out of candles and matches.
Waiting for the roof to leak.
Holy shit I'm tired.
Hypochondria is exhausting.
All the symptoms of bleary eyes and numb limbs.
Resolutions down the drain.
Too many zeros in your future.
You're on the clock.
And digging out is the immediate future.
I'm not trying to do anything here.
I'm just a man indoors and underslept during the 57th snow storm of the season.
Pretty soon we'll be equipped for this kind of living.
Like in Minnesota or Canada where they don't even use roads anymore.
No, they're all Fifth Element'd out up there in the North.
FLying burrito stands and hover-cars.
They only see the ground in July and that's usually just to pick up anything they may have dropped throughout the year.
Then it's back to North American Hover-Living.
The air is a little cleaner.
And it's quieter.
Everyone's a Stranger.
and everyone is sort of okay with that.
But it still looks pretty bad.
We're out of candles and matches.
Waiting for the roof to leak.
Holy shit I'm tired.
Hypochondria is exhausting.
All the symptoms of bleary eyes and numb limbs.
Resolutions down the drain.
Too many zeros in your future.
You're on the clock.
And digging out is the immediate future.
I'm not trying to do anything here.
I'm just a man indoors and underslept during the 57th snow storm of the season.
Pretty soon we'll be equipped for this kind of living.
Like in Minnesota or Canada where they don't even use roads anymore.
No, they're all Fifth Element'd out up there in the North.
FLying burrito stands and hover-cars.
They only see the ground in July and that's usually just to pick up anything they may have dropped throughout the year.
Then it's back to North American Hover-Living.
The air is a little cleaner.
And it's quieter.
Everyone's a Stranger.
and everyone is sort of okay with that.
Monday, January 10, 2011
and when you get through that
Another cup of cold coffee out of the World's Greatest Grandma mug that's been in out of these cupboards for the last 30 years.
I am not the World's Greatest Grandma but I use the mug anyway. It holds just the right amount of coffee.
One day we'll look back at all this and laugh.
But for now lose another layer of stomach lining driving yourself nuts during the quiet hours.
the small hours.
I need quiet. I need quiet and I need to be pissed off.
Or upset.
Or paranoid.
Don't get up, I'm not staying.
Eventually you realize you have to keep killing the same demons over and over again.
They don't die.
Their heads grow back.
You're still a big pile of insecure nerves.
You've never been anywhere.
You've never done anything.
And it never goes away.
Richard Nixon never got over being made fun of by rich kids.
Someone should write that book.
Richard Nixon, after resigning from office, becomes principle at a prep school and gives detention to the rich kids everyday. But one of their father's is a distant Kennedy cousin and he gets Richard fired and he ends up teaching US History at Public School #48 in the Bronx with a terrible pension and no dental plan.
And of course Nicolas Cage plays Nixon.
Nicson.
When you can't seem to get over the fact that the world never opened up it's arms and took you to it's bosom the best life raft is a giant heap of nonsense. It's all nonsense anyway, might as well make it your own.
I am not the World's Greatest Grandma but I use the mug anyway. It holds just the right amount of coffee.
One day we'll look back at all this and laugh.
But for now lose another layer of stomach lining driving yourself nuts during the quiet hours.
the small hours.
I need quiet. I need quiet and I need to be pissed off.
Or upset.
Or paranoid.
Don't get up, I'm not staying.
Eventually you realize you have to keep killing the same demons over and over again.
They don't die.
Their heads grow back.
You're still a big pile of insecure nerves.
You've never been anywhere.
You've never done anything.
And it never goes away.
Richard Nixon never got over being made fun of by rich kids.
Someone should write that book.
Richard Nixon, after resigning from office, becomes principle at a prep school and gives detention to the rich kids everyday. But one of their father's is a distant Kennedy cousin and he gets Richard fired and he ends up teaching US History at Public School #48 in the Bronx with a terrible pension and no dental plan.
And of course Nicolas Cage plays Nixon.
Nicson.
When you can't seem to get over the fact that the world never opened up it's arms and took you to it's bosom the best life raft is a giant heap of nonsense. It's all nonsense anyway, might as well make it your own.
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