For some reason, I like to review movies, even though hardly anyone pays attention to me (at their own peril). I watched almost 200 movies in 2011 and most people would expect anyone who does this kind of thing to make a "Best Of" list. But that's tired and old hat. Let's celebrate hate!
Endeavoring to be unique and original and change the world, this is a top ten list of the films I most hated watching for the first time in 2011; they weren't necessarily released in 2011, though. These movies aren't Fun Bad, like THE ROOM or BIRDEMIC. They're just horrible, horrible pieces of cinema that shouldn't exist.
The second half of the film has some great information, but unfortunately all of that is buried by the glaring mistakes of the first half and the ending, which completely invalidate the entire documentary.
The director's heroin gimme-gimme addiction to the slow-mo effect is mind-numbing. It might as well have been called HEY WE'RE PUNCHING SLOWLY: THE MOVIE.
It flies past Terrible, blasts through Intentionally Terrible, enters a wormhole through Fun Terrible, and ends up in an alternate dimension of Terrible that is even more horrible than the first universe.
A movie that was already horrible because of its central message and Lifetime movie of the week quality, but it became the worst because of one man: comedian Brad Stine. Because of him the movie is not only pandering, it's obnoxious and mental ipecac.
One of my favorite childhood memories is long hours of listening to the music coming out of my mom's small stereo, especially at Christmas when I'd spin my favorite Christmas album: CHRISTMAS EVE ON SESAME STREET. For a long time I've wanted a record player of my own and one that would convert out-of-print records to MP3s so I can be an audio Indiana Jones, rescuing long lost artifacts from the depths of the jungles of garage sales and Half Price Books.
One late night last week The Lady and I were browsing at an HPB and I started flipping through the Christmas albums. I scored several gems, the first of which was A CABBAGE PATCH CHRISTMAS. Even though I didn't have a record player and even though I never owned a Cabbage Patch doll, I had to have it because it was just so absurd. When we went to checkout and rounded an aisle cornder, what to my wandering eyes did appear but a USB turntable! Crystal, apparently having run out of luck trying to find one for me, immediately shoved it into my hands.
And so here is that very album in all of its weirdness, from 1984, a time when there was no perceived War on Christmas and companies indeed didn't give two mistletoe-adorned fucks about inclusion of other faiths, saying "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays."
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Description from the album jacket: "It's Christmas in the Cabbage Patch! As the Cabbage Patch Kids hang their stocksings and decorate the Christmas Tree, they're all hoping - like you - that this will be the best Christmas ever. You, too, can share the magic of a Cabbage Patch Christmas as you listen and sing along to the new songs and traditional carols on this album. From the Cabbage Patch Kids to all of you: MERRY CHRISTMAS!"
Side One
1. Best Time of the Year
An unnamed country crooner explains the premise of babies being born of foliage vaginas. A good start that says, "Let's explain our acid trip."
2. Deck the Halls
The Colonel Casey named in the last song makes his grand appearance as the military dicatator of the Cabbage Patch with a highly generic country accent and he nad his idolators sing a jaunty "Deck."
3. Christmas Favorites
Colonel Casey orders the sweat shop foliage babes to sing the world's first mash-up, comprised of our Christmas favorites, such as, "Little Town of Bethlehem," "Oh Christmas Tree," and "A Song No One Has Ever Heard Because We Just Made This Shit Up."
4. Sleigh Ride
No, it's not the "Sleigh Ride" everyone loves. It's a song about pretending that snow exists and how living in a town like Los Angeles is basically the second circle of hell because of it.
5. One More Dream Til' Christmas
The first side ends with a sappy tune where a really dumb Cabbage Kid says it won't be Christmas until they go to sleep and then wake up, thus defying all knowledge of time zones and the time known as midnight.
Side Two
1. Christmas Hoop-De-Do
My favorite song kicks of the album issues forth a country jamboree to start the second side of the album. I can just picture the Cabbageasitos getting drunk on moonshine and doing meth.
2. Mrs. Santa Claus
A song of female empowerment emerges in this song about a kid meeting Mrs. Clause and how she helps run the elven sweat shop that allows Santa to get fatter and fatter every year.
3. Gimme Gimme Take Take
The reason for Colonel Casey's military dicatorship emerges, as apparently there's conflict in the Cabbage Patch. An evil woman named Lavender McDade wants to turn the Cabbagers into slaves for her gold mine. She wants children of cabbage to pick up a pickaxe and uncover rare minerals when they can't even change their own diapers.
4. Children Go Where I Send Thee
Colonel Casey tells the CPKs to shut the fuck up and follow his orders. And if that means to death, so be it.
5. All One Family At Christmas
Casey wraps the audio adventure by telling us that the whole world is one family at Christmas. You know, except for the Jews and the Muslims and atheists and people who like a nice quiche.
A few weeks ago, my girlfriend and I were shopping for a Christmas tree. Most places had such special prices ranging from $150 for a three-foot Charlie Brown tree to $1,000,000 for a towering eight-footer adorned with icicles crystalized from the tears of Baby Jesus. Not wanting to spend that much, we headed to the bastion of low price home decorating, Garden Ridge.
After scoring a pre-lit six-footer for $49, we started traversing aisles, looking for decorations so that we'd have something other than my STAR TREK and STAR WARS set, because I'm pinkie-finger-up classy. On one of the aisles, amongst manger scenes and ceramic angels was this plastic assemblage of Christmas celebration. Of course I couldn't resist pressing the button.
This wonderful piece of Christmas features such lines as:
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly...fart fart fart, fart fart fart fart."
"Up on the house top...fart fart fart."
"Oh jingle bells, jingle bells...fart."
"I'm warning you, if someone doesn't give me a roll soon, I'm going to use my good list...fart."
"Say, could you help a jolly old elf out, I need a fresh roll of TP...fart."
"It looks like I'll be in here a while. How about passing me some milk and cookies...fart."
"Hey don't you know bathroom etiquette? He who last uses the bowl must replace the missing roll...fart."
Garden Ridge is really putting the mass back in Christmas. I'm certainly not averse to low-brow humor on a case-by-case basis, but there's something about this excretion that really stinks up the holiday. Christmas need not always be classy (hey, I love BAD SANTA), but if not it should at least be funny.
This decoration is lowest common denominator decorating fit for People of Wal-mart, adorning the mantle next to Dale Earnhardt in a Santa Hat and a taxidermied raccoon head. This is a Montezuma's revenge of creativity, a bowel convulsion of comedy, and a Crohn's Disease of imagination. Christmas should be about redemption and good, not evil spewing from your backside. If you buy this, Santa will cry, your children will hate you, the market value of your house will spiral down to hell, and Christmas will be ruined forever.
I suppose it's a universal truth (at least as far out as Alpha Centauri) that every kid who participates in a winter-oriented gift-giving-and-receiving holiday has at least one toy that they always wanted but never received. Both as a child and an adult I've celebrated Christmas (perhaps you've heard of it), though as an adult my attitudes have shifted more towards enjoying giving more than receiving. But such as most children are, I was a GIMME GIMME kid and wanted to accumulate as much loot from Santy Clause as I could handle in my Bag of Holding, which had near infinite space.
As Christmas 1985 approached, my five year old self longed for one thing: the U.S.S. Flagg, the creme-de-la-creme of action figure playsets.
Look at that glorious seven-and-a-half foot piece of plastic. Take a few moments to reflect upon its beauty. I had desperate dreams of shrink rays minaturizing me so I could play on the deck like those commercial kids and then make friends with The Littles and the Smurfs. Seeing as my attempts to turn my flashlight into a shrink ray (or a laser) never worked, though (yes it happened, multiple times), the USS Flagg was at least big enough that I could've curled up in my GI Joe sleeping bag on the deck (yes I had one) and had the best night's sleep EVAR.
My fantasies followed me through '85, as I dreamed of working elevators, yelling in people's faces with the working megaphone, finally having a home base for my non-existent flight of Skystrikers, a boat for Shipwreck to finally pilot, and a base for my favorite Joe vehicle of all time that I actually owned: the S.H.A.R.C.
The S.H.A.R.C. and her pilot Deep-Six were my bathtub mates for several years.
As a toe-headed, quiet kid with giant, thick-framed, thick-lensed glasses from a broken home and obsessed with sci-fi, reading books and comics, and drawing, I was never the envy of my fellow peers and more often than not the butt of jokes. As such, visions of gathering with my one friend Scott Bebee around the Flagg like a Thanksgiving table danced in my head daily. The Flagg would be my cornucopia of 3/4-inch military might and popularity. Alas, the USS Flagg was never to be mine.
I didn't grow up in a wealthy family and a price tag of $129.99 was, I'm sure, a bitter one to swallow for Mom, who raised me by herself on a teacher's salary. She always bought as much for me as she could afford (and often more). But my five year old self had no concept of that: I was only asking Mom for He-Man action figures; Santa's elves were going to make the USS Flagg for me!
Christmas Eve 1985 rolled around. I set out cookies and milk, listened to some Christmas albums on our record player, watched some cartoons and then headed to bed. That Eve was also the one that I saw Santa Claus in my West Texas house, creeping down the hallway to deliver my gifts in the middle of the night....or at least I saw him in a really vivid dream (or was it?).
The next morning I popped out of bed at 6 AM, swooning over finally having seen The Man Himself and bursting with energy to see what awaited me. I ran to my mom's room across the hall, roused her out of bed and took her to the living room of our small house to find...no USS Flagg.
No, there was no seven-foot long glorious platform for launching aerial and naval assaults against the forces of Cobra. There was no way for me to yell in people's faces electronically with minimal effort, no home for my S.H.A.R.C., no flight deck for the Skystrikers I didn't own, and Shipwreck would be stuck a stinking landlubber. There was nothing...except for the greatest gift I ever received: Castle Grayskull, home to He-Man and the good warriors of Eternia!
Castle Grayskull, home to epic battles that sometimes involved Transformers
I wish I had a picture from that Christmas, but I don't. I do remember this: near-running into the living room on cushy green and gold shag carpet to find Castle Grayskull ready for action. Ram-man and Roboto (the best android ever) were guarding the gate, Mekanek kept watch from the tall tower, and Buzz-Off was on the smaller tower, all spread out to defend against Moss Man, Modulok and Battle-Action Skeletor, who were artfully arrayed on the floor. I would actually receive a second Mekanek later in the day from someone; good luck Skeletor trying to get past TWO warriors who have extendo-necks!
Mekanek, probably the least useful MOTU character
The last thing I discovered was the pièce de résistance: Battle Armor He-Man. I didn't own an actual He-Man and had never been able to find one at Kay-Bee Toys when I had money from my allowance. I had, however, found a Battle Cat in a wayward toy store when I was forced to go with my father and grandparents to visit that Middle America bastion of old-time religion and gospel singing, Branson, Missouri. Much to his and my chagrin, Battle Cat was always forced to carry someone else from my small Masters of the Universe collection, but I never thought I would own He-Man himself. Battle Armor He-Man may not have been the original, but he was perfect nonetheless.
Suddenly I didn't care about the USS Flagg anymore. Its memory was discarded for Grayskull and the hours upon hours upon hours of battles between He-Man and Skeletor. I had the thing for years until I "got too old" for it and my MOTU collection was regrettably sold in garage sales or given away along with Boulder Hill from M.A.S.K., my GI Joes, and Transformers.
Battle Armor He-Man, the first one I ever ownedAs an adult I curse myself for ever having allowed that to happen and have occasionally reclaimed them though eBay as an outward expression of trying to reclaim the lost innocence of my youth. I've never re-bought Grayskull and I will never approach trying to buy the Flagg because it's such a highly sought item along with my other most yearned for, yet outrageously expensive toy: Jetfire, the transformer that was modeled after a Robotech VF-1S Super Valkyrie Fighter.
Every Christmas, for at least a few minutes, that old yearning to explore the USS Flagg's deck rears its head and then I remember how absolutely perfect Christmas 1985 was for me. That remembered feeling of sheer ecstasy wells up inside me and I'm reminded of how well my mother knew me and always did as much for me as she was able to give her lonely, sad son as normal a life as she could afford in those early years after my parents split. At Christmas, though, she would go all-out to see a smile on my face, even though I didn't realize it and wasn't always as thankful as I should be.
What my mother did for me every Christmas, and all year, has influenced my own life as an adult. Like my mother, I do whatever I can for the people I love when I'm able. But, every Christmas, when I have someone to give to, I love to see that person's eyes sparkle when I give them something perfect; that old feeling rises up and I'm reminded of all I have to be thankful for.
If you missed Part One of my European adventure, you can find it here.
Day Five
September 9, I rolled out of bed in Malmö, Sweden around 7 AM, sad to leave Scandinavia and the Halley Family, but ready to immerse myself in the baguettes and berets of France. The night before had been a bit stressed, as I had been thrown into panic mode when my girlfriend Crystal's parents needed to move my car back in America and couldn't find my keys. The problem was, I couldn't either. For most people that wouldn't be an issue because they have a pair of keys, but I only had the one and it was of a programmable sort, which would make the locksmith expense that much more bitter.
After a hasty shower and last minute packing, I decided to check my bank account while Crystal was gussying herself up. I'd been expecting my car payment and several other bills to clear while I was out of country, so I expected to have about $600 left in case I needed more money, but forewarned is forearmed and all that.
I logged in to my bank's website, answered the security question, and then stared at my checking account balance in disbelief. Zero dollars and zero cents. Convinced the Internet trolls had been mucking about again, I logged out and logged back in. Zero dollars. And zero cents. My heart started beating faster and I could feel a panic sweat coming on. "What. The fuck." I declared. I clicked over to the transactions screen and saw that indeed, the actual balance of my account was around $600. But the available balance read zero, meaning that some transaction for over $600 had yet to clear.
I couldn't imagine what it could be other than identity theft, but I was emotionally stranded because it was the middle of the night in the US and no one in customer service would be available to help me. Thankfully I'd had the foresight to load up a Travelex card before leaving America and I still had money at my disposal, but I'd have to be mean about my spending from there on out. At the last second, I fired off an email to my father who is a loan officer at the bank, hoping to have a response by the time we reached our next destination.
Between losing my car keys and my bank account balance, I was as close to a panic attack as I'd ever been, but I had to get to Paris for the next leg. Stefan saw us off at the train to Copenhagen Airport and then we were off on Air France, back to Paris.
When we landed in a grey and wet Paris, we were picked up by Crystal's friends Patrick and Wendy, who'd flown over from the States and had been experiencing Paris while we were in Scandinavia. We set out, headed to Monet's Garden in Giverny before we would head to the Pays-de-la-Loire for a wedding.
The ride to Giverny was interesting, with us learning roundabouts the hard way, and spending about 40€ on the tollroads thanks to missed turns and having to get off and back on. Eventually we made it to quaint Giverny and found our way to Monet's Gardens, which were packed with senior citizens. I didn't know much about Monet or his work, but I can see how he was inspired, as his estate was absolutely gorgeous.
After spending a couple of hours strolling the grounds, it was 8 AM in Texas, so I called up my father hoping for resolution, but he could offer little thanks to so-called "rules and regulations." But, he gave me a name and I called her as we headed to our next destination: a bed and breakfast in Lege, Pays-de-la-Loire where we'd be staying until the night of the wedding.
The short of it was that the bank couldn't help me without my receipt, for which I was frantically searching; apparently it was in the same hidey hole as my keys, though I could find every other receipt from the trip. Despite my protesting that no one in Sweden would charge me in US dollars because it wouldn't make sense, she offered no resolution and said it would be up to Mastercard to correct it and said there was no one there I could call either. I thanked her for her time and I called Mastercard help line anyway, thinking her ignorant. However, once I gave them my account number, they redirected me right back to my bank. Dead end after dead end.
A few hours later (around 9:30 PM) we arrived at the bed and breakfast and Christine, the owner, greeted us. Through a mixture of French and English, she led us to our rooms. Crystal and I were put into a room that was considerably pink, but I was worried and stressed and didn't pay much attention at the time. I asked Christine, "Is there some place we could go to buy a bottle of wine? Je voudrais vin rouge?"
"This ees Frawnce, " she replied, shaking her head and contradicting what I'd heard of late night life in the country. "Nawt Amereeka. People eat early here. There ees nothing available."
I sighed and nodded. Of course.
"But," she said, "I weel bring you a bottle of wine." What a saint.
After she brought the bottle, I obseved courtesy and had a glass with everyone else, but inside I was itching to go tear apart my luggage and find that receipt and my keys. When I finished my glass, I all but ran to the room and started pulling things out of my suitcase. Clothes were ripped out of the suitcase and and that's where I found the receipt, hiding in the back pocket of a pair of jeans and displaying a total of 545 US Not Dollars, aka Swedish kroner. Relieved, I took a picture of the receipt and emailed it to the bank, hoping for resolution. But I was still desperate to find my keys, as I could envision a several hundred dollar charge from BMW to unlock my car and program me a new remote.
So, once more unto the bags I went, hurling everything out of my suitcase. I desperately groped about the crannies and then the nooks, but to no avail. Next I turned to my messenger bag. Out came my DSLR camera, my flash, my cables, my Kindle, my magazines, my receipts, my gum, and my pens. Still nothing nothing nothing.
I thunked down on the Pepto-pink bed with a resigned sigh and stared at the wall. Then, I decided to try one more thing: rip out the dividers in my bag. And there, underneath the last divider, sat my keys.
I exhaled in relief and gladly repacked everything, ready for bed. But, there was one more surprise coming.
I'd never stayed in a B&B before and so I didn't know what to expect in terms of atmostphere. I knew it would be quaint and nice, but what I didn't expect how quiet would be; at 10 PM it was positively church quiet. I felt like every sentence I said or every step I took was a minor peal of thunder echoing about the former servants' quarters. But, as Nature was making a call to my body's bullpen, I didn't care.
I took care of business and hit the flush button on top of the tank. In response all I heard was a trickle of water and I thought maybe I had done something wrong. I just stared for about 15 seconds, confused and wondering what I should do. And then the flush kicked in with a WHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMM. The video above doesn't do the sewage cacophony justice, but it was as if a pack of Glenn Becks had all just roared out in anger.
And after all that, all I could do was laugh.
Next up: how we missed the wedding we had travled thousands of miles for and then a word or two about Paris.
Southwest France Fast-Facts
Good luck finding any merchant open after 7 PM
The skies are a real blue
Mimes don't actually greet you at Charles De Gaulle airport
Take advantage of road side petrol stations when you find them. They're few and far between.
Counting your exits on a roundabout is a fun way to practice your basic math skills and avoid "Big Ben. Parliament."
Wednesday, December 28, 2011 at 11:34AM 
