Lincoln II: The Revenge

Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother doing research at all. More stuff I've found while looking for something else:

I swear I didn't find these while Googling myself or anything like that: I'm not entirely clear what the hell is going on here, but I'm delighted and amused just the same. I really like that the "Incoming Links" Top 10 include almost all of my favorite blogs. [Yours is a little further down the list, of course.] The same day I came across that BlogShares page, I saw this and was so stoked to see how popular the Westmoreland project was. Then I realized Alexa was assessing all of

I almost want to apply for this job just to see if it's an elaborate joke.

A little less than halfway down this guy's collections gallery, I started to half-expect to see photos of glass tubes containing the embalmed corpses of various science-fiction TV-show extras and perhaps a dead Bond girl or two. I can't stop staring at the keyring collection photo.

OK, this one is actually about something I was looking for: I recently discovered that I was not the only man to ever harbor a crush on Parker Posey based entirely on seeing her in the pink Jackie Kennedy JFK-assassination suit in HOUSE OF YES, and that I'm certainly not the only one with a Dealey Plaza fetish; it seems to be a viral thing that affects men and women alike on exposure, so I just infected you with it by writing this paragraph. You're welcome.

A gallery of movie posters for all the stinkers roasted on Mystery Science Theater 3000. Can you pick out the film on this page that is the closest thing to SUPERMAN'S PAL JIMMY OLSEN: THE MOVIE as we pathetic bastards will ever see in this fallen world?

The wav files of curiously violent televangelists delight me greatly.


The 250th step on the last road home.

Write Your Own Joke Here

Some more amusing weirdness I found while looking for something else. It's a banner ad illo, but when I clicked on it, I was sent to a site that was very eager to sell me stock in Ford Motors instead of Marvel Entertainment. The best joke in the Comments below wins a prize.

The 249th step on the last road home.

On the Million Man Trinidad Road March

Found while doing research: I used to tell my friends and anyone who would listen that I had a record of Louis Farrakhan singing calypso music under the handle "The Charmer." No one believed me, I don't think.

The well-meaning folks at Fade To Black magazine have done me and the world a solid by spending way too much money on vintage vinyl and putting up a media jukebox of his music. They even made a little music video for his ditty about sex-change operations, "Is She Is or Is She Ain't," although I would have chosen his "Ugly Woman" since I consider it The Charmer at his charmingest. They're all pretty entertaining, but I like calypso music, so who knows. The important thing here is that I was right all along.

According to The Louis Farrakhan African Name Generator, my true name is "Mahamid Shaft." Buck Owens' name is "Shawasha Zuwarah," and Chester A. Arthur's name is "Zuwadza Z. Shebelle." Discuss.

The 248th step on the last road home.


From Zack Soto, esq.:

Have a kitten lick your screen.

Best crackhead scam, ever. The comments thread, at least what I skimmed of it, also offers some un/intentional comedic nuggets.

I don't think I believe that this is the official National Lampoon Web site -- I know NatLamp's not in the best of shape these days, but that site design would be too cheap and cheesy for any self-respecting K/S slash-story Web archive -- but I enjoyed scrolling through all 26 pages of its feature "Superman Is A Dick." The covers are funny and nice to look at, the commentary text is occasionally amusing.

The one that made me laugh the most was the one at the top of this page, since I've always felt in my heart that the Superman-Olsen relationship works best as one between a naive kid and his worldly, assholish older brother. Ditto for Batman and Robin. If the old-school WORLD'S FINEST team of Batman & Robin and Superman had the character dynamic of two shitheaded older siblings and their earnest, hapless, put-upon kid brother, their series never would've been canceled. If a comic using that take on the team existed, people [not just nerds] would knife-fight each other just for the pleasure of being the first in line to buy the latest issue each month.

The 242nd step on the last road home.

The 231st step on the last road home.

"A female prizefighter's gotta know her limitations"

Dear Tom, Bill and no one in particular,

Michael Medved is indeed a loathsome hack, but you really shouldn't assume that the moviegoing audience isn't as dense as he seems to think they are. Half this country is below average, even by our comparatively lower standards, and I've seen movies with some amazingly moronic people. Like shitheads who cheered when [I think] Sean Penn machine-gunned the kidnapped Vietnamese girl in CASUALTIES OF WAR, or who complained about how impossible it was to follow the story arc of PULP FICTION. You'd need to wire a car battery into the left half of their cerebrums to stimulate a discussion with these fucking lunkheads.

MILLION DOLLAR BABY clearly was not marketed to people who want to be entertained but also want to be given a meaty ethical topic to discuss when the theater lights came back on; it was presented as feelgood underdog-sports movie, a girl ROCKY, starring good ol' Clint Eastwood and plucky Hillary Swank. If a few special-interest groups and douchebags like Medved and Rush Limbaugh hadn't raised a stink about the extreme left turn the narrative takes, people would have no idea the movie was anything other than a typical boxing movie until they saw it.

As for the difference between Frankie Dunn and Travis Bickle: Only one of their creators spent hundreds of thousands of dollars and testified before Congress to present an agenda that their film also pushes. Not only that, Eastwood's movie stacks its world's deck to grind his axe; there are far too many absurdly implausible things in the post-injury part of the film for it all to be a coincidence. For example: In hospitals and nursing homes, quadriplegics are diligently moved often to prevent bed sores, and regularly checked for the little bastards; a leg sore would have a snowball's chance in Hell of going uncaught long enough require amputation of the limb. I'm pretty sure Maggie wasn't in the home long enough to have even gotten a bed sore in the first place.

If she wanted to die, she could simply refuse further treatment; but the movie has to swing for the parking lot by having American Icon and Living Legend Clint Eastwood sneak into her nursing home [past armed security guards, no less!] to pull the plug on her respirator. [And then give her a big shot of adrenalin, which didn't make any sense and seemed pretty shitty to me -- that would make her death slower and more painful -- but Frankie's still supposed to be the smartest, most capable guy in the idiot world Eastwood created for him.] It's not that "Clint Eastwood did it to that sweet Hilary Swank - so it must be the right thing to do in all occasions!" it's that the movie doesn't have any doubt that it was the right thing to do.

Ebert's right in that the movie's very well-crafted, but he's merely copping out about addressing that it's an ugly hybrid of the standard-issue Hollywood male senior-citizen power fantasy and Eastwood's personal grudge against those uppity cripples who successfully sued him.

Does anyone else miss the good old days when "critics" like Ebert only trotted out the it's-the-way-the-content-is-presented-not-the-actual-content concept to engage a work made in an almost-alien social/political context, like Leni Riefenstahl's TRIUMPH OF THE WILL or D.W. Griffith's BIRTH OF A NATION? I think that's the only thing that offends me personally about the MDB hoo-ha. I don't mind Eastwood prosecuting his vendetta in the form of a feature film, and I certainly don't care that the "ending" was ruined for me; the downer half was the only reason I had any interest in the movie in the first place. I've never seen THE NEXT KARATE KID, but I would if I heard that Swank's teen character loses the big karate tournament near film's end and commits seppuku in front of Mr. Miyagi [who is Okinawan, not Japanese, but whatever], because the director is a member of the Church of Euthanasia or somesuch. Anyway, it's not like Eastwood doesn't go Western Union and telegraph the fuck out of the ending the moment you learn that Maggie's been crippled.

It's "'Post Some Death Senryu' Saturday" here

a dying cretin
paradise long forgotten
the sky is empty

the undertakers
your atrophied genitals
chuckles all around

taken far too soon
you find your child's porno
two pass on this day

[Now post yours below, boys and girls!]

The 230th step on the last road home.

Marvel Comics History As She Is Spoke

I found this page in a Google search for something else. Haven't found what I'm actually looking for yet, but I have learned that belligerent comics nerdese is way funnier in broken English. If this history was an elaborate put-on, it would be cruelly funny work of genius, but I have a bad feeling it's a French Marvel Zombies' overzealous ESL ramblings. Some of my favorite bits from the page:

"To costumed supermen, succeded vampires, werewolves, ghost riders and other sons of Satan. Take the DRACULA of Gene Colan. The master of darkness shuffled with his fists, as a common burglar. La-men-ta-ble."

"Conan graphic creation, in October 70 was left to a new boy called BARRY SMITH ."

"But Gerber was not able of such masterpieces. He always had to lost himself in twists and turns to uncomber himself with psychological considerations of no interest,shortly to tell a story."

" Yet, it was neither Steve Gerber, nor even Conan who made the event of the seventies. It was no more the rushings by of NEAL ADAMS."

And I can't pick just one thing out of the Gwen Stacy paragraph.

The next page is even better: Blinking Nightcrawler graphic that draws attention to the literally and metaphorically huge typo to the right. Even if you don't read comics, the rest of the history is chockablock with unwittingly funny stuff. And if you don't own a copy of this, well, you should.

There is no movie titled BLOOD ON THE ASPHALT.

Another thing we loved watching was Highway Safety Foundation movies, which aired randomly but regularly on Public Access TV late at night during my high-school years. [The only other regular PA stuff I got as a kid was a Christian Indian zealot who would stand in front of a wall of law books and politely rant about Jesus' superiority to all other Gods in a single 29-minute-long take, and the occasional five or six episode, commercial-free STAR TREK marathon in the wee small hours of the weekend.]

Anyway, Richard Wayman's flatfooted verite shock-O-ramas were my proof that art and media does shape people's minds for the worse; to this day, I am convinced that Ohio drivers are the most dangerous on Earth, and no mountain of statistics, data or any other evidence else will convince me otherwise. As far as I'm concerned, if you drive through Mansfield, you will wind up in a twisted wreck that was once your car, with some prick recording your final, pained, panicked, futile moments on this Earth. And the next thing you know, you're in a clumsily made training film for eternity.

I recently saw a pretty decent documentary about the HSF, HELL'S HIGHWAY, which reminded me of another psyche scar the late Mr. Wayman gave me: a jaunty little reel of hell called THE CHILD MOLESTER, which I remember being shown as a child. Well, I mostly remember the waves of nausea I felt watching it, and the jist of my teacher's introduction to the film.: "You don't want to be killed or hurt, do you? No? Then pay attention! This little movie may someday save you life!" I blame the film entirely for my delayed puberty, but I'm keen to see it again when/if a HSF DVD is ever released.

[This teacher, by the way, is the same one who regularly spoke at length to us about what a mistake the school district made by disallowing corporal punishment in the classroom, as well as the same teacher who decided my quietness was a sign of impaired development and thus placed me in the Special Education program ... without telling my parents for a few weeks. I'm sorta proud that I almost failed out of Retard Class, but that's a story for another time.]

Just when I thought I couldn't have another reason to desecrate Wayman's grave, the documentary hipped me to what's sure to be another gallon of Nightmare Fuel, a police-training film called CAMERA SURVEILLANCE, a how-to that features actual footage of closeted homosexuals [many of whom were pillars of the community] getting it on in a Mansfield public toilet. According to HELL'S HIGHWAY, the HSF was contracted to set up cameras for a sting operation to crack down on the sexual hijinx in the restroom, but the HSF were allowed to use that footage in SURVEILLANCE. The film was reportedly made strictly for law-enforcement use, but some copies wound up in the hands of the town's elite, who would show the film at parties to guffaw at the misfortunes of their country-club peers. That's got to be some film, being dull as a training film but as exciting as voyeur amateur porn simultaneously. Sight unseen, CAMERA SURVEILLANCE conclusively proves my theory that Power plus Familiarity minus Privacy divided by Sodomy equals Comedy.

The 228th step on the last road home.