How nice it must be, we think, to come from money. Old money. The kind of money you don’t even realize you have because you’ve had it for so long. Money you didn’t earn. You’re going along, living your life, rich as balls, going to a liberal arts college and wearing sweaters when you don’t have to because you’re rich, and why not?
Then it all comes crashing down, and the next thing you know, you’re wanted for bank robbery.
The way we rate movies in America is confusing and arbitrary at best. The stranglehold the Motion Picture Association of America has over artists and the way they present their art is unconscionable. It is an outdated, lopsided system which falls apart when you apply even the least amount of thought to it.
I’ve always been fascinated by pro wrestling’s ability to tell a story in a non-traditional way. Mixing elements of a stage play, a circus, and a TV show, along with the fact that there are usually no traditional “seasons” makes for some potentially great and potentially horrendous narratives that are equally entertaining to me. Lucha Underground, however, is unlike any other wrestling product that I’ve seen.
Ever since Humankind figured out how to make things explode, we’ve been doing it at the most inappropriate times around people who weren’t expecting it. That’s an abuse of power, as far as I’m concerned, a perversion of knowledge. A sudden explosion is the meanest prank imaginable.
Let’s go back to this date in 1957. A man named George Metesky is arrested in New York. He’s a mild-mannered guy. Heck, before he got arrested, he changed clothes and went to jail wearing a natty double breasted suit. Nobody called him George, though.
His nickname was “The Mad Bomber.”
Today is David Bowie’s birthday and I don’t understand why anyone is at work or school. Why aren’t government offices closed? Why is this not a Federal holiday? We should all be in public parks, wearing body paint and having Aladdin Sane lookalike contests. We should put on our red shoes and dance the blues. We should be burning space capsules in effigy in the name of Major Tom.
David Bowie is 69 years old and is still cooler than everyone reading this article, combined.
It’s September 5, 1975, and President Gerald R. Ford is visiting California. Appointed rather than elected, Ford has not been the greatest President. He’s already been repeatedly made fun of by Chevy Chase on SNL for being clumsy. He is also dealing with the public relations nightmare that occurred when he pardoned former President Richard Nixon for his part in the Watergate burglary and other crimes. He is seen as a stooge, a puppet, a leader who would rather play golf than deal with the issues.
It’s December 15, 1939, and Atlanta is all abuzz. The film, Gone with the Wind, is set to premiere at the Loew’s Grand Theater. Dig this, kids: 300,000 people made a line seven miles long, just to watch the limousines carrying the stars of the film from the airport to the theater. That is possibly the most boring parade imaginable. Oh, look. A car. Oh, look. Another car.
By Tim Murr
The more you learn, the less you know. Sapporo, Japan’s Saber Tiger have been rocking since 1981, making them an official classic metal band. Until I received this album to review, however, I’d never heard of them!
Destroyer USS Shaw exploding after her forward magazine was detonated. Image from Wikipedia.
If you’re old enough, you’ll remember that right after the Towers fell on 9/11, the American airwaves were filled with something akin to patriotic music, vowing revenge against the attackers. Toby Keith famously sang about the USA putting “a boot up their ass / It’s the American way.” Alan Jackson urged us never to forget by asking us where we were “when the world stopped turning.”
Picture this.
You’re a television talk show host, what they call in Britain a “presenter.” It’s a good gig if you can get it. You’re a celebrity. You get recognized on the street. Pretty girls want your phone number. Life is good.