mind control music in cartoons

in honor of the newest moral panic about a thing that is being blamed for suicides, a look back at when people claimed heavy metal would have that effect.

fundies moved from the tent show to the talk show, popularizing the idea of hidden messages in music.  that idea turned up in a few cartoons, tho not always in the genre of metal…

remember when gi joe’s enemy organization cobra started a band, for mind control purposes?  pepperidge farm remembers.

that was a pretty catchy one, but the brain of “pinky and” fame had better lyrics.  “ain’t you a tall drink of water?”  “actually, madam, i am a laboratory mouse on stilts.”

let me know of any others i should add to the post.

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Nightlife or Night Life?

I was trying to track down this movie I remembered watching on TV in the late eighties.  I did find it, and even watched it.  A good time.  But there were some challenges in my quest, chiefly that there were two cheap-ass vampire movies made in the same year with the same name: Night Life (1989) and Nightlife (1989).  I was able to work out that the one I sought featured Maryam d’Abo, but amusingly it was the one red link in her filmography on wikipedia.  It wasn’t even on the male lead’s wiki.

Both movies are on yewchoob in their entirety.  I’m just going to link to the right one, baybeh (won’t play as embed).  This video is a trip.  The channel that uploaded it has only three videos, all from eleven years ago.  For all I know, the guy who runs the channel died ten years ago.  One of his videos is some kind of public embarrassment thing I’m not clicking, another one is underwear model / 2fastman Tyrese Gibson’s make money seminar, and the last is this.  A TV vampire movie from 1989, ripped from VHS, stabilized with tech that unintentionally transforms it into Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream-cam.

Nightlife (1989) (not Night Life {1989}, fuck that shit) made the most of its budget by shooting in Mexico City, where the locals speak English with a TV Mexican accent.  At least the city got to play itself, instead of pretending to be somewhere else.  Maryam d’Abo had been in a middling James Bond film a few years prior and was the biggest star.

You can see why she’s a star.  She plays a blood junkie very sympathetically.  This is why the movie was so memorable to me as a thirteen year old.  I’m not really attracted to skinny ladies, but actors are professional charisma havers, and she had the most here.  When she found out about blood transfusions, she didn’t want to kill people anymore, and I really felt that.  I was rooting for her.  Like, genuinely emotionally affected.  As a thirteen year old.

The other thing that I found memorable as a thirteen year old was a fucking horrible pop culture reference to beer commercials of the time.  Ho ho, we do enjoy our pop culture references, don’t we?

The male lead is made-for-TV version of Kevin Bacon, in unflattering blue jeans that don’t delineate his ass cheeks enough.  Maybe it was an acceptable butt shape at the time, but it makes him look a lil like he’s wearing bladder control underwear.  I would do a guy who has to wear bladder control underwear, ok, but I’m not gonna be admiring his form while they’re still on.  Get better pants next time.  He has since become very successful as a character and voice actor, particularly for video games.  Pants are not a factor in those roles.

Blood junkie is unsealed from the earth and ends up in the ER, where they give her blood transfusion, and she’s introduced to Male Lead Doctorman.  After that she sells her jewels and gets a cool penthouse with dee-luxe coffin and refrigerator full of blood bags.  The maid character veers dangerously close to “she’s funny because she’s Mexican” (actress not Mexican), but far from the worst for that year.  Meanwhile, junkie’s creepy ex-bf Lastnameless-due-to-Universal-Pictures-IP-Fuckshit Vlad is in town, stalking her.

Vampira gets to know the doctor romantishly, and finds out from her ex that if she doesn’t get blood from a person who’s being attacked, it’s less effective for her health – and a Beast she ams lest a Beast she Becomes.  Vlad Not-Necessarily-Not-Dracula literally talks about the Beast inside them, two years before Vampire: The Masquerade‘s first edition came out.  Mark Rein(spot)Hagen, is there something you want to share with the class?  Sorry, there’s no way in fuck most of you get half the humor in this article.  I suck (not-necessarily-vampirically).

All that’s to say, how does she get fear-laden blood without killing people?  I won’t spoil it, tho it ain’t deep.  Oh, and this is another reason this appealed to me at age thirteen.  The doctor treats vampirism as a disease, is skeptical of the supernatural – and although the science in the movie is very bullshitty, the plot supports him in this!  In this world, science can win.  Kinda.

And so they all lived happily ever after.  Except the guy who played Vlad, who is dead IRL.  And Maryam, whose husband died two years ago.  Time is the real monster.  And probably TV Bacon is actually in bladder control underwear by now.  Fuck you, time.  Let all the vampires live forever.

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probably going to stop quick-posting for a while now.  who knows how long?  see you next year?  idk.

I Uncle Hui’d It

In the movie Hard Boiled (辣手神探/Lashou Shentan/Hot-handed God of Cops), there’s a big warehouse fight scene that just keeps going and going.  It’s a pivotal moment or two, so that’s fair.  Early in that scene, when Johnny Wong’s crew are attacking rival mobster Uncle Hui’s property, one of the defenders calls up the boss to let him know what’s going down.

In my head the line was something like “Uncle Hui, Uncle Hui.  At the armory.  There’s a raid going on.”  “Armory” was said more like “ermory.”  Side note, I’m talking about the dub, because I love the early english dub of that movie.  Anyway, the actual line?  Completely different.  I can’t easily find a version to double check at the moment, but going from memory is where I went wrong in the first place, so not sharing it.

Why did such an inconsequential line take real estate in my brain?  The dub voices were so funny to me I couldn’t help repeating lines, sticking on them.  The obvious ones to hit over and over again would be your “Give a guy a gun and he’s superman, give him two and he’s god!” and, oh, practically everything Johnny Wong says.  Maybe I was more likely to get those ones right, so the lesser lines suffered memetic drift in my head.

Again with the dubbed voices, there’s a kung fu movie where Jacky Chan steals a guy’s food.  I always remembered the line as “Hey, goddammit!  Who stole my piece of chicken?”  The actual line was more like, “My piece of chicken, who stole it?”  I get confronted with this, the limitations of memory, far more often than I’d prefer.  I call it “Uncle Hui-ing” in honor of that moment from Hard Boiled.

The original George Romero version of Day of the Dead has a kinda hilarious but heartfelt performance by the late Anthony Dileo Jr, as a guy who is losing his mind under the influence of a zombie apocalypse.  I remembered a number of those lines perfectly, but at least one was a bit off.  Uncle Hui’d!  And perfectly fitting the theme of this post, as I look at the videos I was watching just last fucking night, I can’t remember which line I had wrong or how the wrong version went.  fml.

Off topique, but that dude died from covid early this year.  Keep vaxing, and if you wanna like i do, keep masking.  Don’t take chances with your lives.

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Essential Milks

I made a playlist of what I deemed the best Dead Milkmen songs, following my exhaustive review of their discography, trying to have at least one from most of their albums, to get the range of what’s going on there.  Does it hang together?

The biggest problem with making this kind of thing is often the volume difference from one album to the next, however I think yewchoob might equalize stuff to have a similar noisiness, from one video to the next?  At least, I don’t recall having any radical changes causing issues – unlike burning one’s own cd, where that’s a perennial annoyance.

Another issue is appended intro or outro material on a track, no way to skip without editing.  That’s why I left “Life is Shit” off of this list, tho it’s usually considered essential to tha canon.  Anyway, top 20 Dead Milkmen songs in whatever order seemed the least jarring with minimal effort.  A number of these tracks break my ableism and/or doomerism policies, so beware…

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Rewrite This Fvcking Song Plz

“A teenage dream’s so hard to beat, every time she walks down the street.  Another girl in the neighborhood, wish she was mine, she looks so good.  I wanna hold her, wanna hold her tight, get teenage kicks all through the night.”

Behold, some shitty socially acceptable pedophiles.

My problem is that this song is so damn good.  Musically.  Fuck the lyrics a lot.  The music to this song rules ass.

That is not true for “Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen” or “Young Girl.”  We can file those songs in the hall of shame, never listen to them again, and nothing of value is lost.  “Teenage Kicks,” on the other hand…

Somebody rewrite this song for me, please.  Thank you.

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alright, i dunno how old feargal and the gang were when they performed this, and one could say he’s doing a character, and the treacly-sounding creep in HBSS was just a few years older than the girl, whatever whatever.  the extent to which teenage girl sex appeal has been played up in music, doesn’t leave me feeling very generous about it.  i’ve known more than my share of dudes who are hung up on the sex appeal of teenage children.  one could, in theory, have that hangup and still power through it to be a decent person, in the way you conduct yourself.  reserve it for the life of fantasy, yadda yadda.  in practice, no, you get grown men trying to seduce teenage girls – and succeeding way too often.

letting this kind of messaging be acceptable was a big mistake.  you shouldn’t be able to say “teenage girls are so sexy” without getting looked at like the slime that you are.  certainly you shouldn’t be lauded for it.  fucken hell.

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Ya Talk Too Much

When I was a kid in the ’80s, the children in the halls and on school buses would chant song lyrics, especially raps.  Janet Jackson, Beastie Boys, LL Cool J, and Run DMC all had their time, sometimes with alternative lyrics, like the “batman smells” versions.  This song was especially popular.

The place I heard it the most was in the mouths of other babes four decades ago, and I’m only seeing the video for the first time now.  I love the use of white people in this video.  It’s like these guys are the sensible cool mans in a world of weird posers and art freaks.  They gots my number.

In more ways than one.  In the latest FtB Poddish Sortacast, I spoke way too much.  I had proposed the topic so it was kinda my time to rampage, but still, rude.  Nonetheless, I thought I did a great job elucidating my perception of the world and the shituation we’re in.  This is not a good video to watch if you’re one of the people my doomerism policy is designed to protect, so don’t watch it if you’re one of them.  Anybody else, have at it.

Am I foolin myself, or did I come off like a big ol’ smartypants?  I lost the bead a few times, but when I was on, I was on.

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Pathetic Little Bluesmen

I’ve had a few posts over time that touch on the subject of Dark Sexual Majesty™, which is the thing some blues men do – later co-opted by hard rock and rap – where they claim to have outrageous sexual powers, with overtones of supernatural evil.  See “I’m Your Hoochie Coochie Man,” “I’m the One” (Danzig), “I’m the One” (DJ Khaled et al), “I’m the One” (Van Halen), “I’m the One” (Van Halen covered by 4 Non Blondes), and “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” for a few.  There might have been a few jokes in there, watch out.  Point stands, because I say it does, justified only by my own satanic powers of Dark Sexual Majesty™.

But here’s the thing.  We know these boasts are untrue, because they include impossible things.  A little exaggeration to heighten the feeling of exultation?  Or does it undercut the entire theme?  Is it possible the whole thing is meant to be ironic affect, hinting thereby that the singers in question are ineffectual lovers?  Losers who cannot get with tha babes, get sand kicked in their face on the beach?

Of course not, but the idea crossed my mind and I thought it was worth a laugh.  One solitary laugh.

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Brainjackin: Francis Bacon Good

All cultures are an instance in a continuum of cultures stretching into the past and future as far in each direction as the term culture can be used to describe what was or will be happening there, and they flow into and out of each other geographically as well.  Parisian urban culture circa 2025 is not the same thing as Parisian urban culture circa 2022 (to the extent you can even draw a line around what constitutes Parisian urban culture).  Close, but not exactly, and the more years pass, the more different those instances become.

Why did I feel the need to open this article with that pretentious shit?  It’s preface to say that art students from one decade to the next will be enamored of different artists from their own past and present, but you can point to any given class and say “those guys sure loved (Artist X).”  Back when the fascist Futurists were saying they hate Goya, you could feel, in that hate, just how popular Goya must have been with the art students around them.  They were being contrarian, and what they chose to be contra must have been well-loved.

I’m told that in the late 80s – early 90s, Francis Bacon was huge with art schoolies.  I’ve seen some evidence of that in the works of my college professors and of my older cousin Dave.  What was going on there, with that moment of Bacon Love?

This artiste du jour thing may be less true of the 21st century, where culture has become much more balkanized.  Can’t think of specific artists that reigned over the schools my husband and I attended.  At the commercially oriented one where we met, possibly the biggest artistic influence was Jhonen Vasquez, but there were lots of people that were not on that page.  My husband also attended a fine art school in the same city, with a lot more rich kids.  What were they into?  I’d term it “contemporary urban art” – the kind of shit you’d see in Juxtapoz and High Fructose magazines – and again, I can’t think of one specific artist with outsized influence.

Shit, where was I going with this?

Fuckin’ Francis Bacon.  Not that one, this one.  I never would have become familiar with his art if not for my husband.  Not because my husband was in art school when I was in high school, but because he has always sought out intellectual enrichment, even as a child, and started learning about fine art way before he actually reached college.  That guy downloaded Eraserhead on a 14.4 modem before I bought my first computer.  (To be clear, we didn’t know each other until later, when he was an adult.  I’m not that creepy lol.)

So my husband knew the works of Francis Bacon.  I might have glossed over them in magazines and textbooks on rare occasions in the years before we met, but the memories never stuck.  His work did not fascinate me, because while I am attracted to goths, I am not quite a goth myself.  Flash-forward to the early days of our relationship, 2005-2006.  We were sharing the things we love, and I was properly introduced to this great artist.

Francis Bacon – seriously stop thinking of that one right fucking now – was an Expressionist in a time of Postmodernists.  Maybe not philosophically – I’m much less familiar with his words than with his visual creations – but in practice, he painted emotion with intensity and a Symbolist nod to the classic.  This was how the original late 19th century Expressionists worked.

If you see the writhing horror of his art, you might imagine it was painted with an torrent of quick brutal strokes.  My husband has seen one of these works in person and says this is clearly not the case.  His canvas is evenly covered.  Someone who attacks the canvas like a method actor will leave exposed little white dots of fabric, or have thick impasto with dubious structural integrity.  Mr. Bacon had a furious vision of his subject matter, but a controlled hand in rendering it.

This might be the only time some of you see his work, so I should choose something to put the best foot forward… eh, my work alarm goes off in seven and a half hours, so this’ll have to do.  His most famous painting, after a Velázquez pope portrait:

Scream all you want, man; no one here gets out alive.

I came into this article imagining I could find lovely hi-res pics of his work all over the internet and was sorely disappointed.  The availability of such things on my bookshelves was misleading.  Maybe someday I’ll upload some pics from the art books we have.

Anyway, if you need an perfect visual representation of your pain, and haven’t found the one artist who will make you feel understood, give this boy a look.  Francis Bacon good.

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Does Bébé Want to Fvck Glenn Danzig?

This article is patently facetious.  Of course it’s problematic – imagine such an article written by some bro about a woman and that is apparent – and of course the person in question is a real and entire-ass human being with thoughts and feelings beyond his public persona, and of course he is to all appearances not interested in getting with fat middle-aged queers, and this fat middle-aged queer is married and also not interested in getting with people who are not interested in getting with them.  Proceeding with these facts in the back of the mind…

There are important questions we must ask of ourselves in this life, to prepare for all eventualities and exigencies, no matter how unlikely.  Given the outsized presence the music and persona of Glenn Danzig have in my life, one may reasonably assume I am a fan.  And as a fan, that I might come into contact with the old man in some way, someday.  And if that should happen, would I want to fuck Glenn Danzig?

Consider, if you will, the appeal.  Danzig is a blues man, part of the long tradition of howlin’ about your supernatural sexual prowess and affinity for death and the devil.  Said Bo Diddley, “I walk 47 miles of barbed wire, I use a cobra snake for a necktie, I got a brand new house on the roadside Made from rattlesnake hide. I got a brand new chimney made on top, Made out of a human skull. Now come on take a walk with me Arlene, And tell me who do you love?”  Said Glenn Danzig, “Come wrap my love in your house of ice, Melt you down more than once or twice, Make you shake till worlds align, See your body tremble with the blood of fire.”

Danzig is buff.  I used to draw musclemans when I was a child, inspired by toys and images in cartoons.  That was the body of the cool and powerful.  Once upon a time, comic nerds strongly favored Glenn to play Wolverine.  The fact he is short was a note in favor – comics canon Wolverine is short and thick.  But I lost interest in muscles, especially the more I realized I wanted to get with men.  Some bi people want mans to be buff and womans to be soft, but I’m more like, everybody be soft now.  Still, it doesn’t necessarily repulse me, as long as they’re not popping every vein like they do on muscle magazines.

The main thing is the Dark Sexual Majesty.  Brooding intense guy will own you body and soul with his grand satanic gifts.  Get destroyed and do so gladly, to experience and to serve a lust more powerful than god.  Realistically, no way he’s that good at fucking.  People get a limited number of talents and he’s already got his share before the bedroom door is opened.  The idea, however, can itself serve as foreplay – prime one to enjoy something more than they otherwise would.

This image is ripe for mockery.  Some rude indie comix nerds made arguably homophobic hay with Henry & Glenn Forever, a series featuring Glenn and Henry Rollins as gay lovers.  Reportedly Mr. Danzig is not amused.  I hope this article, should it find his attention (do not bring it to his attention plz), does not hit him the same way.

Would I mock his arch-macho posture?  Never.  Maybe a wee bit.  Let’s talk about that bassist from Hole, Melissa Auf der Maur.  She bought the act, and cut an extremely cringe-inducing duet with him.  The plot is about how cowboy bad boy Glenn shot her dad, but she’s cool with it, because he’s too sexy.  Like The Quick and The Dead, if Sharon Stone gave up on vengeance and boned Gene Hackman instead.  Does Melissa always sing like that, or was she trying to play the role of a pubescent girl?  Glenn played the part fine, if the part existing in the first place could be considered fine, but I dunt know what in tarnation Melissa was doing there.

So it works!  I could suspend my disbelief for it.  What other considerations are there?

Age.  He is now seventy years old – about my father’s age.  Looks a bit like Donald Rumsfeld with a facelift and chronic depression.  But I’m feeling my age and have always been cool with much older partners, so no prob there.  He once had a song about how he doesn’t want anybody to bar his entry to the afterlife when he’s “tired of being alive.”  Let’s hope he isn’t tired yet.

Height.  Some guys are smol, and try to make up for it by getting swole.  The bodybuilding can’t help but look napoleonic, as did his practice of escrima.  This seems Italian to me.  Glenn is Italian as hell, despite stagenaming himself after a place in Poland.  In college I had two professors of visible Italian heritage with Italian-ass Italian surnames.  One looked more northern, with the gold blond hair and impish lil’ napoleon face.  The other looked more southern, dark skinned and prominently schnozzed.  Cute fellas, but tiny.  Didn’t see them pounding HGH flintstones chewables, but different people get by in different ways.  This doesn’t bother me.  Nonetheless, his old drummer Chuck Biscuits could probably chuck him for distance, and it looks like that bothers him.

Erotica.  Glenn puts his erotic imagination into the world for all of us to see.  Part of the blues thing, but he goes farther.  Weird stuff.  He wore black vinyl kitty claws for one music video, a gimp suit for another.  Didn’t he have a video where he drooled on a lady, like we were supposed to think that was hot?  I think he did.  It’s been a minute.  This is all fine.  Sex nerds are fine.

But he also publishes erotic comic books.  I dunno if he has written or done art for any, but he publishes them.  This led to a wacky situation in my life.  Early in my relationship with my husband, he and his mother felt the need to get me christmas gifts that I’d enjoy, something personal to me, even tho there’s not many material things I want at all.  They knew I liked Danzig, so they got me Danzig things.  My husband crocheted me a Glenn amigurumi that was truly epic, while his mom just bought seemingly random shit from his online stores.

That included two comics, one being a Devilman translation / reprint, and the other being a kinda disgusting erotic comic.  The dudes all had summer sausage schlongs and no balls.  I get it; people who aren’t attracted to men often think of balls as disgusting, but their absence was felt.  My mother in law is christian.  She did not look at these gifts before wrapping them, and I did not show them to her after I opened them up.  (holy hell he actually made a movie out of that foolery, looks terrible)

High school Bébé wasn’t over the “musclemans is cool” thing yet, and bought his image.  Long black hair, elvis sideburns, and giant meat titties.  What’s not to love?  I sometimes drew rpg characters to look like that.  The songs can still work for me.  Dude is a very good songwriter.  The Misfits without him were such a bad joke that they found jeezis.  Disturbing.  But yeah.  I was totally into Danzig, at the same time I was going big for grunge.  There was room in my heart for earnest heroin boys and meaty satanic posers alike.  I contains multitudes that I would be down to fuck.

And where am I now?  If I accidentally’d into the boudoir of His Satanic Majesty?  Yeah, I’d hit that.  But I’d probably end up on top.

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I keed, I keed!  Is joak, da?  By the way, If the title of this post made you remember something from Blue Velvet, congratulations and apologies.  Have a nice day.

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Brainjackin: Silent Hill Good

I’m no kind of gamer.  I usually just watch other people play, and have since long before yewchoob “let’s play” videos were a thing.  When you first get to know somebody in a relationship, you share your interests with each other, and this was one my husband shared with me early on.  Silent Hill 4 had just come out a few years before we got together, and he still had a lot affection for that series of horror video games.  This would quickly sour, to the point that he refuses to look at anything related to the well-received remakes that are starting to happen.

So I’ve played a few.  I played one through three and part of four.  Four reached a point where it was too difficult for me, and I just gave up.  Those who are familiar will know exactly when.  But up until that moment?  It was a great time.  No complaints.  Up until SH, I had only extensively played Super Mario games on snes, Sonic 1-3+Knuckles and Eternal Champions on sega, and Soul Reaver.  Bits and bobs of other things, but nothing to prepare me for playing a video game of atmospheric horror.  (I had watched a homeboy play The Dark Eye on PC once.)

Silent Hill 1 was on ps1, and the graphics would not be acceptable to most gamers now.  Horror gamers are a different matter.  Indie horror has delved deep into retro graphics, some specifically aiming to emulate the graphic restrictions of the old playstation.  It’s a strange kind of impressionism, well deployed by this video game.  There were certainly a few games back then that made better use of the constrained art form than SH1 had, but looks ain’t everything.  Taken as a complete experience, it deserved its legendary status.

I just have affection for the characters.  Maybe that was because of my dude’s fandom rubbing off on me, but the blocky pixelated protagonist Harry was swell.  He wanted to rescue his lost little girl, just being a good dad, but without the macho BS american bros would have put into the performance, or the mucus-dripping tearfest they’d have put on a lady protagonist.  The monsters were unearthly and disturbing in part because the graphics were so lo-fi.

There was a shitty British SH game called Shattered Memories that rewrote the events of SH1 to have Harry be a bad dad.  Fuck that shit a lot, especially because it has become such a played-out trope of “psychological horror” by now.  Harry was the goodest boy.  Like the Evil Dead series of films, where I’m a freak for preferring the first one, I am an outlier in enjoying SH1 the most.

Silent Hill 2 is the game that introduced the iconic Mr. Pyramidheadington of the West Gloucestershire Pyramidheadingtons.  Almost every game after SH4 stood in the shadow of that creation, or some beefed up steroidal version of it.  Nonetheless, he was very cool in that historic moment.  While I prefer SH1, I have to admit the writing approach used on this one was just superior.  The first game leaned into arcane lore and sideplots that meant nothing to the point of the game.  This one focused on one character’s tragic personal experience.  The former approach is a very common weakness of Japanese media, the latter is just a bit of common sense that is often forgotten in the field of video games everywhere.  Big movies about complicated historic events like the World Wars focus on singular characters because it makes more emotionally resonant art.

It was a great game, although some parts dragged for me, and I did feel invested in the family story that was left behind to focus on the new protagonist, famous James.  It was more elegant and powerful than the first game, but less evocative and slightly less fun for me, personally.

Silent Hill 3 is the most empowering game in the franchise.  Empowerment is the antithesis of horror, so it could come off less scary, but it also perfected use of the PS2’s graphic abilities.  Animated textures impressed, and overall there was more chiaroscuro and a rich juicy look to the horror – without getting tacky.  All of the games bore some influence of the art of Francis Bacon, but this one used that influence the best.

SH3 had the missing daughter from the first game as a cool teenage girl, ably swingin’ various weapons at shimmering monsters, and having amusingly awkward conversations with members of her deceased original mom’s cult.  Was the game actually easier, or did it just feel like it?

Silent Hill 4 is so different it has been suggested (confirmed?) to be a different product altogether, randomly given a Silent Hill makeover two-thirds of the way through the production cycle.  Weirdly, that was a very good thing.  The Silent Hill paint made the art cooler, this game’s lore made the Silent Hill setting richer, and this game’s play made the franchise fresher.  I enjoyed the part I was capable of playing well enough that I don’t rate it too poorly for being unfinishable.  The main monsters of this game are ghosts.  Fucking awesome ghosts, I tell you whut.

Some long years of insulting abuse of the brand happened – terrible games made by far-flung third party companies, fucking slot machines…  My husband’s hope for any possibility of good coming from the franchise is now long gone, but just before it was gone completely, we went to see the Silent Hill movie directed by Christophe Gans.  At one particular violent moment, a guy in the audience said “oh hell naw!,” which amused.

There were good people working on that movie doing good things, but the bad kept grating on my dude until he decided he hated it.  C’est la vie.  The worst person involved had to be the screenwriter, who co-wrote the legendary screenplay for Pulp Fiction, but at this point was just a few years shy of drunk-ass vehicular manslaughtering a guy, and lifted the cheesiest line in The Crow.  (No way in fuck the bum got it from where The Crow got it, Vanity Fair.)  I agree; that shit sucked.

I wouldn’t have experienced any of that if it wasn’t for my husband.  When we met, I was more unplugged from video games than ever.  I was spending much more of my time on art and TTRPG bullshit.  I appreciate the introduction.  Silent Hill good.

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