MyProblem with MySpace

My "friends" (and I use this term literally, not simply in MySpace
speak) know that my relationship with this website has been somewhat
tenuous and turbulent ever since my last stint as Elmer Fishpaw. Having
originally signed on to take advantage of the easy-to-use blog function of
the website, I initially approached MySpace as a means of accomplishing
something that I had been considering for a long time - to document my
lifelong movie habit while maintaining a comprehensive list of every movie I
see. Simply list the flick with fun screenshots and, if necessary, make
appropriate comments. I couldn't have cared less about the "social
networking" aspect of the site. Having been one in high school who just kind
of drifted from social group to social group instead of aligning myself with
one particular faction, I did my best to not give cliques the power to
really mean anything to me personally. Later in college, while attending a
National Broadcast Society meeting in New York City, I began to see
desperate graduates-to-be embrace a curious tactic called "networking" as a
means of ensuring their post-collegiate profitability. Was I frightened to
go into the "real" world when the only job-seeking advice the teacher I
assisted and befriended for three years had was "look in the phone book"
(turns out he was giving the juicy internships to all the hotties he would
horn out over) - fuck yeah! My job description wasn't even on any of those
lists that lay out the average salaries of colleges graduates, leaving me simply to speculate that if I didn't make millions, I would probably be destitute. It seemed like a total joke. I was as keen as anyone to make a decent living after I graduated, but the inherent schmooziness of the whole broadcast industry was already beginning to wear pretty thin on me.

Of course after college I got a hard lesson in the mindset and tactics of
the desperate while cutting my teeth (and nearly my wrists) at Fox Sports
Net Detroit. I hate sports, and only gotten the job in programming as a bit
of a fluke; looking back, it really was a joke. An interminably long and
excruciating joke but a joke none-the-less. Sports Programmer: Jason
Buchanan. It was absolutely refuckingcockulous. The man who loathes sports
and sports mentality with pretty much every ounce of his capacity for
loathing was now working in the programming department of a major cable
sports channel. If I was ever going to succeed in this line of work, it goes
without saying that I would have to a) golf and b) give a shit about sports.
Since I pretty much came to see golf as an overpriced game played by
ass-kissers and schmoozers (it's here that I should ask my friends who enjoy
the sport to forgive my minor prejudice as I know well this isn't always the
case), and I hadn't the knowledge or desire to acquire the basic
communication tools (ie endless sports statistics and the results of last
night's game) needed to interact with these people on any but the most
cursory of terms, I guess it's fair to say that this was a bad career move -
a move made not by genuine interest or ambition but rather equal parts fear
and indecision. It was a miserable failure as well, but if I had to single
out the good I'd just say that I learned a few valuable things about
corporate mindset and met some of my favorite people there. I still work
part time in production, but I'm lately gravitating away from that.

These days I work at a full-time job I enjoy, and in an environment filled
with people whom it seems I have much more in common with. As in high school
I haven't lingered too long at any single lunch table. I usually just eat at
my desk. As a result it's easy to feel excluded a majority of the time. I
don't drink coffee with the java frat, I don't have a regular lunch-mate,
and I'm not one of those guys with a 8 to 5 girlfriend before going home to
the woman I legally exchanged vows with. (Note: Ask me to go out to lunch
and I will almost always happily accept - I just usually brown bag it to
save money and eat healthier) I had never questions anyone's motives for
wanting to be my friend until I started using MySpace on a regular basis.
Suddenly it was something more than just a place to carry out an innocent
experiment. I felt myself actually questioning my placement of my friend's
top eight (or sixteen) lists, and allowing that bitterness to sink into my
perception of my real world relationships with my MySpace pals as well. "Why
did this person not accept this friendship invite" or "Why did I get bumped
to the bottom of his page!" As I had previously become savvy to the ways of
the ass-kisser at Fox Sports Net, I have now come to understand the true
nature of the "social networking" set while working in an environment where
half of the day is spent blogging about the celebrity vagina du jour, the
celebrity couple a la mode, or the pregnant, heroin-addicted bulimic
celebrity super-model who's fucking them all. To those who call me a hypocrite due to the fact that I ran a blog primarily concerned with media (read: film), what can I say? I guess you got me there.

Needless to say my faith in humanity has been properly soured by the state
of things both trivial and genuinely newsworthy - I've always thought that
if the cancer hadn't killed him Bill Hicks would have suffered a fatal
cerebral hemorrhage in our post-9/11 society - throw a newborn into that and
you've got a real recipe for some serious introspection. I'm beginning to
question things, and MySpace has come to represent ideas that hold no value
or appeal to me on a personal level. I did begin to feel this way one
before, and that time I simply delete my account without an explanation. Of
course the True Extremes website with remain up and active (I do still
believe that MySpace is great for budding filmmakers and musicians), so
anyone wishing to contact me can certainly do so with ease. If I'm not
there, try "jasbuc@gmail.com". To my friends on here and in flesh-and-blood,
your kindness and companionship has truly earned my undying loyalty and my
love for you runs deep - we'll have to get together soon for some dinner,
pool, a movie, or maybe just some outrageous baby action. We can't wait for
everyone to meet our lovable lil' milk barfer. To my "friends" on MySpace
and those who care not to really establish any more than a broadband
connection, take care and be well. I think I'm going to start my experiment
over again - this time with a few kid flicks alongside the Cannibal
Holocausts - on a different website where popularity doesn't factor in to the equation to the extent that it does here. To all, I'm sorry it took me so long to make up my
damn mind about this silly little sight.

Cheers,
J

A funny post-script concerning my return to work today. Of course I was reluctant to leave my daughter for the first time in nearly two weeks, but on the same token I was also excited to see my friends and colleagues after an extended leave from the office. It was interesting how a momentous event such as childbirth pretty much forces a person to re-evaluate their interpersonal relationships whether they wish to actively do so or not. Packing my bag to leave for the day a "friend" and co-worker who I've spent a fair amount of time hanging out with outside of the office breezed into my section of the cube to drop off a DVD for my cube-mate, offering what just may have been the coldest "welcome back to work" greeting I think I've ever had the displeasure of receiving (a curt "hey" accompanied by what seemed to be a concerted effort to avoid eye contact), and only after I greeted her with a smile and a hearty "hello." I couldn't have been more offput by this individual. In the past I had done my best to offer friendly consolation when her when her cat died, and even offered support and relationship advice when she had man troubles. Never in my entire life had I been more convinced of the fact that when all is said and done, the vast majority of people really are just selfish, self-absorbed fuckwads. It truly was just weird. Now I'm not saying I wanted her to run over, do back flips, and give me a hand job simply for doing my part to contribute to overpopulation, but scheese, at the very least it would seem that a friendly "welcome back" would be in order on such an occasion considering our friendly past. After all, I had went to movies with this person, attended a concert with this person, and she had even been to our house to watch a movie with close friends. Ah so, whachagonnado? I guess some people just can't be bothered.

(A word of warning to squeamish readers and expectant mothers in particular. This is my interpretation of our birth experience, and I haven't held myself back on some of the more frightening and discomforting details. In the end there was beautiful, radiating sunshine, but in order to get to that golden valley we had to walk a few dark and cold trails. You may want to hold off on reading this until you have your own experience, or even refrain altogether.)

It was about 4:30 on Monday when I got the call. We were in our second week overdue; a little frustrated, a little afraid, fairly emotional, and more consumed with anticipation than I ever thought imaginable. "Do you want to come home? My water just broke?" I couldn't turn off my computer fast enough, and as I blasted out the front door and into the cold I locked eyes with Al - who immediately took note the panicked expression on my face and shot me an encouraging look and a double thumbs up.
Stay calm now. It figures that she would choose to come on the day we get blasted with our first serious snow.

Drive safely.

Focus.

Got to get back to Plymouth and out to Providence alive; the roads are bad, and it's officially afternoon rush hour. Since the freeway is under construction I've been using a back road to get to and from work, and though traffic was usually going 55 to 60 today it was luck to be breaking 30. "Ok, now, get there alive and try not to drive like a complete maniac asshole." I get home to find an excruciatingly calm Krissy trying to get me to eat dinner before heading to the hospital. Right. I do my best to stay calm and try to get her in the car knowing that the roads are shite and traffic on 696 - my old FSN work route - will literally be at a standstill or miles and miles... and it was bumper to bumper worse than I had ever seen it. Well, how many other opportunities will I have to drive on the shoulder? I put on the hazards and took carefully to the side while chugging along at a cautious residential street speed. At the entry exit for The Lodge a state police officer named Dawn was sitting in her K9 unit truck and filling out some paperwork. I pulled up behind her, nervously walked over to her window, and asked if she would be so kind as to get us to the hospital just a little bit faster. She immediately called an ambulance, came back to Krissy's window, and chatted with us. Turns out cops can't escort you to the hospital with the cherries blazing anymore, but thankfully The Lodge was moving along and we just had to make a quick change of plan. I had been faithfully chanting "696 to Greenfield to 9 Mile" ever since we found the Alternative Birth Center, and now I was forced to improvise and substitute "The Lodge" for "Greenfield." Small beans, Officer Dawn was kind enough to drive behind us to ensure our safe arrival. She cancelled the ambiance and Krissy was through the ER doors in about ten minutes.

I parked, grabbed our bags, wrangled up the birth ball, and headed up to the ABC.

For those unfamiliar with the ABC, it basically allows expectant parents to give birth in a comfortable, home-like environment, but with the added benefits of being located in a great hospital and staffed by a truly exceptional team of midwives. The first night was as frustrating as he drive in. "Was that a contraction?" Eventually we realized that things just weren't moving along and opted to get as much sleep as possible and see how things we're looking after a hearty breakfast and some nipple stimulation. Yup, you read right, I said "nipple stimulation."

...and thankfully contractions began to come more frequently after said nipples were sufficiently tweaked.

Despite this encouraging sign, however, not everything seemed to be moving along so smoothly; Krissy just couldn't seem to dilate past a four, and the midwives we're threatening banishment to Labor and Delivery if there wasn't some real progress, and soon. I knew Krissy's vision for the birthing process, and could see a heartbreaking mix of panic, uncertainly, and deep fear forming in her eyes, but what can I do to relieve it? I did my best to keep my composure for her despite feeling completely lost inside, yet as conventional methods failed one after the other and I had to ask one of the well-intending but unfamiliar midwives to kindly speak to me like I'm an adult father-to-be with genuine concerns and not a shortbus gradeschooler my brave resolve gradually began to fade. Eventually the very real prospect of drugs came up with stern but compassionate midwife Dee, and the tears spilled out from over the rims of Krissy's tired eyes. Our pregnancy had gone amazingly smoothly, and now it seemed that as surely as suddenly the situation heading straight into nightmareland. Krissy had once confided in me that giving birth was one of her greatest fears, and now I knew that all I could do for her was try to stay strong and use the knowledge I had learned in our birthing classes and our many conversations about the matter in order to navigate this soul-swallowing sea of treacherous waters.

The Caster Oil did nothing to increase the power or frequency of contractions and it made Krissy blow chunks to boot. Though the breast pump was helping to increase the frequency of contractions they weren't as powerful or consistent as they needed to be, and Krissy's body just didn't seem to want to dilate past four. Fuck. As the twenty-four hour mark drew near we began to have serious discussions about Krissy's most insistent no-no: drugs. Apparently modern women who want to expedite the painful birthing process have three options: get a c-section, have a needle jammed into their spines that dulls the pain, or get administered a drug called Pitocin that increases the power of their contractions. Krissy wanted to bond with her daughter over a healthy bit of pain, wasn't too keen on major surgery, and the more we found out about Pitocin the more we began to suspect that it was a dangerous refuge for lazy doctors looking to ensure a high turnover rate. I should note here that I know there is definitely a time when c-sections are inevitable, it's worth the small but notable risk of taking Pitocin, I jump at the opportunity to be administered legally approved narcotics, and I deeply respect any woman who has the resolve to give birth no matter which method she chooses nor why - I just knew my wife Krissy was all about the "natural" aspect of "Natural Childbirth," and was at least at one point had admitted to being as terrified about the process as I am stepping aboard an airplane.

Eventually it came down to Stadol, a drug designed to allow the laboring mother to rest through her contractions and gather the strength to weather the coming storm. Holy shit, the coming storm. The plan was to give her an hour or two on this fairly low-risk (what class of drug?) as I administered the breast pump - alternating titty-to-titty every five minutes. The room was dark, we had a CD with the sound of the ocean playing, and Krissy was in what seemed to be a deep, restful sleep. As scared and emotionally drained as I was, I remember laughing tiredly at one point as she muttered something incoherent and, when asked to repeat herself said, stated "She's got a big head." As the drug began to wear off and she began to become more coherent, the fire alarm began blaring and the emergency lights in the hallway began to strobe. Fortunately it was only a test, but it seemed to go on f o r e v e r and the piercing alarm ringing through the hallway was no match for the alarmed expression washing across Krissy's face. It was too surreal, Was this all really happening?

Two hours later the contractions were definitely more powerful, yet still discouragingly sporadic. When the midwife came in to examine her and noted that she was still only contracted to four despite hours of work, it appeared as if our time was up. I took her in the shower, ran some soothing warm water over her body, and as we walked up and down the hallway trying to get her body going I could see one of the midwifes tidying up our room. Were they really going to kick us out? I pictured us in labor and delivery, Krissy strapped to a table like a vivisected monkey, giving birth to a flipper baby before dying from a bad reaction to the Pitocin. Many dark things ran through my mind in that which had seemed our most desperate of hours, my brain went to places I have never wished to go, blissfully unaware that that it was a mere sneak-preview for the all-consuming chaos and terror that was about to unfold in the coming few hours.

It was happening - the walks and the Stadol were working their magic, and Krissy was finally dilated to seven. Thankfully they didn't kick us out, but I'll never forget the moment Krissy's favorite midwife told her that she had to finally let go of her fears and embrace her birthing experience for what it was rather than what so had so vividly envisioned for months on end. "Embrace the Pitocin." The unthinkable had been spoken, and to our surprise they had an infinitely more powerful effect than even two straight hours of nipple stimulation. Of course - Krissy was stressed about the way things had been going, and her overstimulated brain was stopping her body from relaxing and just letting it all happen.

It was 10:00pm when she let it all go and, I as intense wails of positive pain reverberated around the room I began to think how cool it would be to have a full moon baby named Bava. We labored in almost every position we had ever seen, and as the clock passed midnight I was just glad the progress we were making. Note to fathers looking to comfort their wives in labor, the four items that may make all the difference in the world are the most simple imaginable: a cool cloth for her face, a constant supply of fresh drinking water, ice cubes to crunch on, that gooey energy/protein gunk that marathon runners swallow, and chap stick. For yourselves, I highly recommend an energy drink of your choice - sipped leisurely, some hearty snack bar thingies, string cheese, and a yogurt; you're going to be busy, best to have stuff you can speedily cram down your cakehole in between contractions.

Come 1:45am I was about to collapse after getting only two hours of sleep the night before, and Krissy was starting to push. When the bed work wasn't progression as fast as we liked we decided to stand-up and give gravity a shot. I held her up from behind as her body gave in to the contractions, and when it our little gal began to work her way down it was back to the bed for the home stretch. It was really happening, I could see a tiny head struggling to work it's way into the outside world and Krissy was gathering a second wind of Herculean proportions after getting a glimpse of her emerging daughter in a mirror. As the tiny head started to emerge exhaustion gave way to exhilaration, and I could see Krissy struggling. the head was out a little less than halfway, and it appeared as if it was being crushed by the pressure. I panicked, begging Krissy to push and get Bava's head out as I distinctively heard the midwife say "I don't like this." I could see them molding her misshapen head and I though I saw her tiny brains coming out a hole in the side. It appeared as if she was trying to stuff them back into that hole, and in an instant I was shattered. It may have been a false image, but it was an image I will never forget. I had never known true terror and complete darkness until this moment. I pictured my fragile young daughter sprawled out on the bed a stillborn mass of bloody flesh, and her mother driven to insanity by the unimaginable power of that devastating blow. To work so hard, for so long and against such seemingly insurmountable complications, and then see it come to this was almost too much to bear. I surrendered myself to insanity and begged Krissy to use every ounce of strength to get our girl out - the only expression of my pitch-black fear the unmeasurable desperation in my voice. She has since told me that all she sensed in my voice was excitement, but the truth is that it was no less than pure, unfiltered horror. To expectant fathers who plan to be in the delivery room as your child is born, the best advice I can offer is to be prepared to see a pretty fucked up looking little head coming out, I always knew that it had to squeeze to get through the birth canal but I never expected anything even remotely close to what I saw in those moments - stay brave. A few more pushes and our baby was free. Krissy's power amazed me, and after watching her fall back into a complete collapse I looked down to see the midwives handling a beautiful newborn girl whose comforting cries at least gave solace to knowing that she has survived the trauma of birth. She was ok. Her mother was ok. My life, I felt, was complete.

We were subsequently informed that despite having what appeared to be a completely healthy child we were to spend the next twenty-four hours in the hospital - pediatricians orders. I drifted off to sleep for what couldn't have amounted to more than an hour, and woke up to my first day of fatherhood. I feel as if I've suddenly stepped into a world that was once as foreign to me as the mountains of Mars. Despite being a firm subscriber to the belief that the only certainty in life is uncertainty, I can say with a fair amount of conviction that the coming years are going to be some of the most interesting of my entire life. We've been blessed with a great family, amazing friends, and now, the most beautiful gift I could ever imagine.

As I look at my little girl sleeping there on the vibrating "Kick&Play," I am filled with such inner peace and spectacular awe that it is difficult to express in words despite the fact that I sling words to make my keep. When parents would tell me that you just can't describe how having a child will change your life I always thought to myself "Of course, I'll have this other person in my life now that I will love, nurture, and care for to the best of my abilities." I knew deep within that their words were sincere, but I never imagined that it was to see your entire existence crumbled and rebuilt in a an instant.

Of course when she wakes up wailing it's another story entirely.

So many of my memories with family and friends have to do with death. In Saline we always used to joke that suicide was seasonal, and it seemed that at least once a year someone would slam their car into a tree or get run over by a semi. I've been to my fair share of funerals, and sat in a room knowing that my brother's brains were painted across a wall as my mother wailed and my father sat stoic at the table struggling to comprehend what he had just seen. For months I fell asleep in my basement bedroom to the sounds of my mother weeping on the second floor - the interminable moans haunting our home and thickening the air with sorrow. In that moment of dreadful uncertainty I experienced while working with Krissy and the midwives to bring our little girl into this absurd world, I knew the unfathomable pain that my parents felt on that damned and fateful day. My own pain from that experience has been a constant companion as touchable and tangible as the six-pound sweetheart sleeping at my feet this very moment. I feel as if I've stared death square in the eyes, and out of that foreboding void there has come lightness and birth.... and I think that birth just dropped a deuce, so now I must go to perform my fatherly duties.

For those interested, here is a link to a video I made for Krissy's side of the family, who unfortunately won't be able to fly out from Arizona and meet the latest addition to the family until after the holidays: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwDGQSquRPs

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'I'm like a camel - I fill up my hump with hate... I'm like a hate-camel.'
- Bill Hicks

It was midnight on a Friday and I couldn't help but hearing Bill Hicks laughing at me from six feet under the dry Texas dirt, worms crawling though his face as he takes a long draw off a Camel - a productive, wet corpse's cough yielding up a rotting piece of lung. I was at a bar I didn't know, with people I didn't know, in a town I didn't know, with booty dancing to my right and a giant projection screen showing the Piston's game on my left. Jigoku time. Had we hit a semi while I was staring slack-jawed out the window and wondering where the hell we were going? Ten minutes ago I had been under the impression that we were walking uptown to the Irish pub to have a few drinks with an old friend - a Guinness perhaps or maybe two to take the chill off of the 40 degree walk home - but now we were somewhere off of Middlebelt road in Westland, heading out for drinks with a group of my friend's ex-co-workers, not one of whom I knew. It was already strange for the way the day had gone. I had gotten home from work earlier, gone to Mother's to get a pizza with super-pregger Krissy, and the come home to watch Tokyo Zombie.



It was a good flick. Started off as a zombie apocalypse buddy comedy with a fro'd Japanese stoner/Butthead semi-retard and a grumpy bald guy obsessed with Jiu-Jitsu, went animated as it flashed into the future, and then morphed into Romero's Land of the Dead as interpreted by Jim Jarmusch, but with Frotard fighting zombies in the pit instead of Asia Argento. Friggin' bizarre. Funny, fairly deadpan. It's hard to resist a zombie flick where a weird-ass guy in a ridiculous bald cap forces a doctor to tell him he has cancer, and then convinces himself he's a zombie while intimidating actual zombies into acting accordingly.



Other things I liked about Tokyo Zombie:
Goofy rock and roll soundtrack by obnoxious Michelle Gunn Elephant; wannabes The first words spoken by Frotard and his abusive wife's psychophysiologically mute five-year-old daughter are "Are you fucking retarded?"; "Hard Chipple"?



Anyway, it had been a mellow evening and I thought we were walking to an Irish pub that's six blocks away instead of driving to a bootie club fifteen minutes away. I had been cool with staying in the general vicinity of home in case anything happened with Krissy and Bava, but I wasn't sure about all of this - especially when, as we tried to enter the place, I was forced to remove my hat and check my jacket before having my driver's license thuroughly scrutinzed by some roid' raging wanker. I was secretly pleading with him to give me the piss off and deny my entry into his greasy little meat-market so I could just go back and chill with a Guinness down the street from home. Matt's friends were really nice, but my mind was elsewhere, and this was undoubtedly not my scene. All of these people worked together, and knew each other really well. I knew no one, and it's virtually impossible to become acquainted with someone while I'm relatively sober, bass is thumping in my ear and frat-boys are dry humping mini-skirted chicks close enough to inadvertently graze me with their hard-ons as they stumble to stand upright. Yikes. No wonder I was thinking of Bill Hicks.

Anyway all's well that ends well, and later in the evening we reached Sean O'Callighans in time to grab some ale before last call. The bartender there was cool, shit was winding down, and we found Bob talking to the guy who does the Bell Tire voice at the far end of the room. We game back to my place, watched two short horror flicks from Synapse's bad-ass Small Gauge Trauma DVD (it has some favorites from the FantAsia film festival) , and a few Borat segments from the Ali G DVD set.

Saturday night was fun. Good friends, good food, and Stephanie was even kind enough to leave the last few slices of her yummy lemony desert with homemade whipped cream - thanks Steph! :)

Oh, yeah... one more thing!


My two favorite Halloween flicks this year were Tourist Trap and The Gates of Hell. Fulci at his best is pretty damn great, and there's nothing like telekinetic Chuck Connor using the power of his mind to make mannequins kill. They all make this creepy ass sound when they open their mouths, and Connor wears a mask to trick his teen victims into thinking that he is his own dead twin brother. It has this nightmare logic and quirky humor that makes you kinda chuckle while ye'r all weirded out. Favorite exchange in the film, hands down:

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Seriously, what the fuck?'
There's also a great scene where he chases a girl through the woods while clutching a screaming, decapitated mannequin's head. Classic, but you gotta rent it if you wanna see that one.

Also saw Borat and Saw III last weekend - the latter of which I had "lucked" into free passes for. Ten minutes to the end of Borat the screen went bright green and there was the most horrible, painfully loud buzzing sound I've ever had the displeasure to experience (we got free passes as a result), and Saw III was a rotting pig-entrail milkshake served with extra suffering. Ugh. Such bullshit, and it thinks it is GENIUS! If I ever hear that cancer-ridden jackass say "I want to play a little game" again, I'm going to put my own head in a bear trap; no need for one of his "ingenious" rube-goldberg traps.

Ever have one of those days when a good dinner would go a long way in making you forget about all the bullshit that had occured in the previous ten hours? Me too ...then dinner was bland as stale tofu and the landlord came knocking for the rent after I took my second bite. I should mention that though Krissy went out of her way to make pineapple chicken - which is usually excellent and something I very much appreciate - something just went wrong this time; and I acutally genuinely like my land lord quite a bit. He's a hell of a nice guy who has really taken care of Krissy and I, but never in my life have I wanted to throw a person out a window than tonight...

Figured maybe a nice photocentric blog would even things out as I prepare to end the night on a resounding down note with "Lost." I admit, I was hooked for a while - I used to get pissed when it was bad, and get excited talking about it with Dana, Matt and Tracey at work when it was good - but these days I just couldn't care less. Kinda sad, we don't have cable and it was quite literally the only show I watched.

...already talking about it in past tense. Never a good sign.
Ah so, there are plenty of movies on the shelf.

Speaking of movies, Brad and I drove out to Grand Rapids monday night to check out "The Lost" since it was likely the only chance I'll ever have to see it uncut and on the big screen. Ginormous thanks to the Wealthy Theater for making that possible! It was well worth the four hour round trip, I even caught a spooky Halloween episode of Coast to Coast on the way back home.

Brad at the Wealthy..,

Out in front of the Wealthy during a nuclear explosion...

A nearby mural...

Inside, 20 sec. exposure, on the knee...

I made a creepy head on a stick to decorate my friend's front yard using a paper bag, a plastic bag, a leatherface mask, a wig, Bill Clinton's eyes, and Theodore Roosevelt's teeth...

My friend Jeremy went to out Halloween work party as a bottle of Colt 45...

...and I got chased by the sunset on the way home from work tonight...

To think that I was so gung-ho about getting back to blogging after the death of Elmer Fishpaw! Well, you can still call me Elmer, or Squirrel Melt, Dickchow, Bloodfart, or just plain ol' Jason... but whatever name you choose I figured it was high time to jump back into the fray for an update. I hope life has been treating everyone well since my last entry, because things are pretty good from where I stand at the moment. My gorgeous wife is about to give birth to a rib-kicking little beauty I can't wait to meet, I just got done cutting a teaser trailer for my latest short film, I've seen a ton of good flicks lately - three last Sunday alone! - and I just got some new ink! As annoying as the whole "look at my tat!" schpiel is, I'm going to show it off anyway because it's a design I've been thinking about for a while, and I'll be battered and deep-fried in boiling cat shit if Sam Wolf isn't one of the most amazing artists I know. Thanks Sam!


Thank little infant Jesus I haven't had to work many games lately - damn near got my arse kicked for jeering the Tigers at Connor O'Connors during game one of the World Series last Saturday, but I have been keeping busy with lots of writing, taking care of me lady, and attempting to get the post-production process for True Extremes underway. I spent this last week writing an AMG feature on Jack Ketchum film adaptations, and after sending notice to the man himself via MySpace I actually got a response saying that he enjoyed my article and was sending it along to some friends! Holy hell! Words simply can't describe how cool it was to get a kind word from the man I consider to be one of the best damn horror authors living or deceased....and apparently in addition to being a pretty amazing writer, he's also a hell of a nice guy! If you've got a strong continence and a morbid desire to be scared shitless this
I highly recommend heading down to the local bookstore and picking up one of his books. I just finished 'Off Season" and my colon is a baron wasteland!


Next Monday night I'm going to see a special screening of "The Lost" at my pal Rodney's theater The Wealthy in Grand Rapids, so anyone who would like to join me for some serous horror action should give me a call and come along for the ride. The film hasn't gotten distribution yet and it sounds like it is going to be pretty fucking outrageous (if director Chris Sivertson sticks to the book I can't imagine how he'll get off with any less than an "NC-17"), and this may be our only chance to catch out the flick uncut on the big screen!

Official website here: http://www.thelostmovie.net/intro.html

Last Saturday I got the pleasure of helping out with a Loose Change pilot that my good man Jebby and his talented crew are planning on pitching to some emerging network sometime in the very near future, and it was great to have a mini-True Extremes reunion with Jebby, Shaver, Jacquie, Jeff, Ken, and Troy all working together once again. I don't believe any human being can simultaneously crack me up terrify me like Troy Randall Kilpatrick - see True Extremes trailer for further proof - and I also got to meet such supercool new folks as Karri, Louis, Cate, and Mr. Pyro ...I had an absolute blast and I truly couldn't ask to be cramped up in a small office for twelve hours with a cooler bunch.

The man himself, T.R.K.!

Sunday afternoon it was all about finishing that True Extremes trailer and watching tons of horror flicks. After starting off the day with a few episodes of "Tales from the Crypt" and moving on to "Dellamorte, Dellamore" (best. movie. ever.) and "Don't Go in the Woods", Marriedula and I got cranking on the trailer. By dinnertime it was all aboot "The Great Yokai War" (damn azuki beans song is still stuck in my head), and right now I'm checking out some of Alessandro Ossario's Templar Knight zomboos sailing the high seas in a luxury yacht and feasting on some lovely Spanish models in "The Ghost Galleon."


While I'm on the subject of flicks, watch "The Proposition." Penned by Captain Depression himself - Nick Cave. Seldom has such a bummer been so mesmerizing. At first I questioned how predictable it was - anyone who has ever seen a western will knows that when the lawman hires the wanted man to go gunning for his own psychotic bastard of a brother shit is *not* going to end up ok - it soon became apparent that the movie was in essence a poem and wasn't necessarily supposed to surprise with some extravagant twist. The final question that brother asks brother is a one of those that lingers with you a bit after the fact. Recommended.


Later on it was time to break out one of the classics - "House by the Cemetery" (next film strip will have some Fulci!).

Oh yeah, and if you're looking for some good Halloween music, you're looking for some Fabio Frizzi.

Hmmm, an idea for the Fulci ink mayhaps?


Cheers,
J

The lady and I just got back from a vacation with the familoo, and I figured what better way to "hit the reset" button than with a vacation photoblog....


Now that's my idea of a vacation! LOTS more pics here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/26693054@N00/sets/72157594288084163/show/

I tried to keep my old blog a strictly movie watching deal, and although I will be attempting to keep that up to the best of my capacity in version 2.0, I will likely be doing a bit more photoblogging and such given my current status as an expectant father. My wife Krissy is due on November 25th.

It's a Sunday, I'm trying to wind down from vacation with a nice apocalyptic 1970s Japanese flick, and thinking about getting my own flick edited...



The movie I'm watching, Virus (1980), is a 2-1/2 hour epic about a viral epidemic that wipes out most of the population before nuclear weapons assure that the few remaining survivors endure a most punishing fate that was cut by nearly fifty-minutes for American consumption.

Cue Chuck Connors, George Kennedy, and cheesy 1970s disaster flick theme song "It's Not too Late to Start Again."




What can I say, this Halloween I'm writing an article for work on "The Cinematic History of the Apocalypse."

Anyway this week should be interesting. Gonna get a new tattoo (thanks Sam!), see Nightmare on Elm Street with Steph and Brad, and babyize our computer room! Krissy's baby shower is coming up (her mom and best friend will be in town), and we have to prep the place for MORE STUFF!