Chances are, you’re probably bored with the same ol’ selections on the tube. (That is, if you can find any worth watching that haven’t been played to death, or if any cable channels are actually showing horror flicks during the Halloween season.) Sure, I love Freddy, Pinhead, the (original) Wolfman and all those other homicidal old friends as much as the next nut case, but sometimes, you gotta switch up the menu.  With a few weeks left until Halloween, there’s still plenty of time to scout out some unexpected treats to gobble up on DVD - or VHS… for the really obscure films - to host a horrorfest of your own.  After all, you can only sit through Friday the 13^th so many times. 

While there were a few movies I would have loved to plunk in here, they were either too commonly shown on the television during Halloween (i.e. Psycho, Bram Stoker’s Dracula), too ecclectic and expensive to track down (Clive Barker’s Rawhead Rex… The cheapest which it can be purchased for is $76 on VHS! Hello, economically feasible DVD re-release already?!) or they weren’t straight-up horror, but more along the lines of film noir (Sunset Blvd. and Whatever Happened to Baby Jane). Regardless, I attempted to pull from a wide variety of horror subgenres when compiling this list, so hopefully, there’s something for everyone’s tastes!

That said, here are some of my recommendations for horror films you may not have seen that are worth digging around for (in descending order with the most recent films listed first).  Happy Halloween!

 1.  The Devil’s Rejects  (2005)

It’s hard to classify Rob Zombie’s The Devil’s Rejects as strictly a horror film.  It’s more like a buddy picture/road trip movie with a shitload of violence.  Kind of like Bob and Bing hit the road and go on a killing spree or The Wild Bunch meets Natural Born Killers. With its grubby, grainy film quality, there’s a stylistic ’70s feel to the film even beyond its period setting. 

The Devil’s Rejects is one of those rare films that’s better than its predecessor, in this case, Zombie’s House of 1,000 Corpses.  It continues the saga of the demented Firefly family, focusing on its patriarch, clown makeup-sporting Capt. Spaulding; his psychotic, thrill-killing daughter, Baby; and his adopted son, Otis P. Driftwood, an eloquent, yet utterly batshit maniac who may enjoy killing even more than Baby.  The Firefly family is oddly likeable, in spite of the fact that they kill for no real reason other than for kicks.  Then again, it’s hard not to like a bunch of lunatics who converse about “Tutti-fuckin’-Fruity” ice cream, lament being labeled as a fornicator of poultry, and stress the importance of “Top Secret Clown Business.” The Devil’s Rejects  is easily one of the best films of any genre - not just horror - in terms of character development, writing, story, and direction.  If you haven’t seen it, it should definitely make its way into your Netflix queue.

2.  Strangeland (1998)

Dee Snider as Captain Howdy in "Strangeland"

I was probably one of the few people who actually got to catch Dee Snider’s Strangeland in its theatrical release before it gained a small cult following.  For years, Snider has been trying to release a sequel, but a string of unfortunate circumstances have blocked the film (and comic books in the form of a prequel) from being completed with the rights tied up in litigation.  Most recently, it was reported that Dee Snider is partnering with NEHST Films to produce the long-awaited sequel  entitled Strangeland 2: Disciple.  Although it seems like a long-shot for it to be completed this year, there’s a good chance Captain Howdy will ride again in 2010.

Released in 1998, Strangeland made a great social commentary early into the internet age.  Snider’s script was oddly prophetic, forseeing not only the To Catch a Predator-esque pitfalls of what was once dubbed the “Information Superhighway”, but the emergence of extreme body modification breaking the mainstream surface.

Additionally, at a time when the genre was dominated by “teen horror” flicks, the film’s anti-hero Captain Howdy (played to the hilt by Snider himself) - a  tattooed, pierced, and technology-savvy mad man with a shamanistic streak — was a throwback to the days of wisecracking horror movie icons with a personality à la Freddy Krueger. 

3. Nudist Colony of the Dead (1991)

What’s not to love about a low-budget zombie film that’s also a musical!? Made on a shoestring budget, there is very little actual nudity in Nudist Colony of the Dead, unless you count the awful polyester zombie “birthday suits” worn by the singing, dancing, decomposing zombies.

The premise of this fantastically bad film revolves around the undead former residents of Sunny Buttocks Nudist Camp who turn on the gang of religious zealots that condemned their  peaceful colony.  Having decided it’s better to be expired than fully attired, the nudists indulged in a suicide pact and return  from the dead. Having been buried right at the site of their beloved Sunny Buttocks, the undead nudists wreak havoc on the hapless bunch of Christian day campers – the children of those who condemned them.  Even better, they sing, dance, and even rap for these repressed teens before devouring them!

Although Nudist Colony of the Dead has the feel of a Lloyd Kaufman/Troma film, it was actually made by writer/director Mark Pirro who brought the world such gems as the Polish Vampire series and Queerwolf in addition to roving the country giving college seminars on low budget filmmaking.

4.  Exorcist III (1990)

George C. Scott examines a very hardcore pair of hedge clippers in "Exorcist III"

Everyone heralds The Exorcist as one of the greatest horror films of all time.  Not taking anything away from its revolutionary-for-its-time status, but Exorcist III is sorely underrated as a sequel and a horror film.  It picks up with the rather unique torment of Father Damian Karras’ body and soul as laid out by the demon he had exorcized. Additionally, the script for Exorcist III was based on Legion, William Peter Blatty’s sequel to his novel The Exorcist.

Jason Miller reprises his role as Father Karras and George C. Scott gives a tremendous performance as Detective Kinderman, a man of conviction set upon the task of finding out the identity of the serial murderer known as “The Gemini Killer” (yet another casting coup with Brad Douriff!) – and his potentially otherworldly origins.

There are very few gruesome scenes in the film, but when they crop up, are highly effective.  Overall, the film carries a very disturbing, supernatural atmosphere and doesn’t really need blood or gore.  Beyond that, George C. Scott’s performance really makes the film.  Scott’s portrayal of a very human, very emotional man underscores the theme of Good vs. Evil and the shards of each that exist within each person, waiting to be brought to the surface.  While elements of the original Exorcist can be laughed at, there’s very little (unintentional) humor to be found in Exorcist III.

5.  Misery (1990)

Break out your rubber underpants as Annie Wilkes prepares for a hobbling in "Misery."

Chances are, you’ve probably seen this adaptation of the Stephen King novel.  If you haven’t, you’re missing out.  In a rare Academy Award acquisition for a horror flick, Kathy Bates deservedly earned a Best Actress Oscar for her role as the romance novel-obsessed Annie Wilkes.

In Misery, Wilkes happens upon a car wreck containing her favorite author, Paul Sheldon (James Caan) and takes him into her home.  What is initially perceived as a kind gesture soon becomes a nightmare for the author.

You’d be hard-pressed to find a more cringe-worthy movie moment that doesn’t involve blood than when Annie Wilkes “hobbles” Paul Sheldon.  Moreover, Misery manages to be both brutal and funny at the same time.  Caan’s low-key reactions help to further sell Bates’ contrasting, manic portrayal of Annie Wilkes.  In turn, Bates get to drop such verbal gems as “You’re a dirty birdie” and “He didn’t get out of the cock-a-doodie car!” She’s so socially awkward, you’d almost feel sorry for her… If she wasn’t such a fruitcake.

6.  Poltergeist II: The Other Side (1986)

Rev. Kane: Creepy dude from "Poltergeist 2" and the ultimate boner-killer

Poltergeist II is far creepier than its predecessor.  Some of the film’s most disturbing moments can be attributed to the skeletal Julian Beck’s portrayal of the demonic Reverend Kane.  (Incidentally, Beck was a rather remarkable avant garde actor, having created The Living Theatre which still carries on to this day under the direction of his widow, Judith Molina.)  The fabled “Poltergiest Curse” also adds to the willie-inducing aura of this film with many of its cast members having died shortly after the film was made.

In Poltergeist II, once again, the Freeling family finds themselves haunted by unwelcome spirits that are drawn to their highly clairvoyant little girl, Carol Anne. This time, the family gets help from a mystical Indian (is there really any other kind?), played by Will Sampson (”Chief Broom” from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest).  Back for a second appearance in the franchise is the teenie-weenie medium, Tangina Barrons (Zelda Rubenstein). Horror hijinx ensue. The scene to watch for is the utterly creepy instance where Kane wails “you’re all gonna die!” through the Freeling’s porch screen door.  

7.  Nocturna (1979)

There isn’t really anything terrifying about Nocturna except that it revolves around disco and vampires: two things that suck. Released under the title Disco Dracula in its South American release, Nocturna  was the vanity project of exotic belly dancer, Nai Bonet, and an attempt for her to branch into film.

This midnight movie masterpiece features Bonet as the disco-dancing granddaughter of Dracula (John Carradine) who falls in love with a mortal.  With stereotypical ’70s NYC “street” characters thrown in amongst vampires, Nocturna  also boasts a triad of horror movie icons who lend the film a tad more legitimacy.  John Carradine portrays Dracula… with dentures!  In the latter part of his career, Carradine suffered from crippling arthritis.  If you watch closely on this low-budget bonanza, the cameraman didn’t have the foresight to pan the camera away from Carradine’s badly gnarled hands.  Yvonne DeCarlo (AKA - Lily Munster) stars as Jugula, Dracula’s former paramour who takes Nocturna under her (bat) wing.  And finally, Brother Theodore (perhaps best known for his Letterman appearances and his work in The ‘Burbs) plays Dracula’s lecherous werewolf henchman who has the hots for Nocturna.  (You haven’t truly known shame until you’ve seen a 50-something German man question himself as to “When will she be… my little yum-yum?”

It’s a hard one to track down, but for the humor, camp, and rarity factor,  Nocturna  is one horror film worth searching for.  Try digging up this one on bootleg horror sites as it was never sold on DVD or VHS except as a rental-only release.

8.  The Sentinel  (1977)

John Carradine is way creepier than usual as a blind priest in "The Sentinel."

The Sentinal

The Sentinel  centers around a young model who had previously attempted suicide.  Rehabilitated and on the right track, she moves into an unbelievable — and rent controlled! — NYC apartment building.  Unbeknownst to her, the building is actually the gateway to hell.  Additionally, the film features some well-known stars in minor roles.  Christopher Walken has a bit part in one of his earliest film appearances.  Chris Sarandon has a feature role, as does Burgess Meredith as the cutest little ol’ man Satan you’ve ever seen!  Also making appearances are Beverly D’Angelo and John Carradine as a blind, elderly priest – the Sentinel himself. 

If The Sentinel  doesn’t scare the shit out of you, you’re hopelessly constipated.

9.  The Wicker Man (1973)

Christopher Lee's Lord Summerisle dresses as Cher for the island's Pride Parade in "The Wicker Man." Fierce!

We’re talking about the original Wicker Man here, not the abomination of a remake starring Nicholas Cage that was made a fewyears ago.  The only remotely horrifying thing in that remake was Cage screaming “My eyes!  My eyesssss!!!” and emoting with the all depth of a brick of Velveeta.

This — the original and far superior — version stars Edward Woodward (The Equalizer) as an uber-religious (possibly Catholic) cop who is called to a small island to investigate the disappearance of a young girl.  His narrow minded, religious sensibilities are offended when he discovers that the island has stayed true to their British Pagan roots, employing a number of old traditions.  This tucked-away Pagan society is headed up by Christopher Lee as the dashing Lord Summerisle.  The practices of the islanders don’t go over too big with the detective, who soon discovers that the community’s inhabitants have plans for him other than tracking down the missing girl. As it turns out, some of the locals’ quaint Pagan traditions aren’t quite so quaint.

Wicker Man is truly disturbing, right up until the very end.  If the plot and suspense of the film alone doesn’t make you want to check it out, then just watch it for a glimpse of Christopher Lee merrily prancing about in drag.

 10.  Masque of the Red Death  (1964)

Roger Corman directed this adaptation of Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, one of his many Poe-inspired films that he directed and/or produced that starred Vincent Price.  Set in the Dark Ages, Price stars Prince Prospero, a devil worshipping regent who barricades himself and his court against a plague ravaging the countryside.  The devil worshipping Prospero takes in a young, virtuous woman to his castle under the premise of helping her and her family escape the plague.  His true intention is to corrupt her by introducing her to the debauchery commonplace amongst his royal followers.

 Masque of the Red Death is surprisingly complex thanks to Price’s performance as Prospero.  It’s obvious he enjoys camping it up, almost twirling a Snidely Whiplash ’stache at various intervals throughout the film.  However, there is an almost tragic anti-hero aspect to Price’s characterization.  Evil isn’t shown merely as a one-note entity that wants to corrupt Good.  Rather, Evil is attracted to Good because it possesses traits that Evil can never have.  That difference makes it all the more intriguing of a subject to corrupt.

 

is perhaps the scariest film I have ever seen.  Ever. (And no, I’m not referring to the action/”adventure” piece of drek released a few years ago). It’s hard to pinpoint just what is so utterly terrifying about The Sentinel, but it is. Maybe it’s the religion-tinged occult themes.  Or the fact that the ending sequence of the film features a coterie of actual freaks and seriously deformed people, unaltered or unenhanced by any theatrical makeup?  Who knows.  All you need to know is that it’s creepy.

According to Courtney Love’s mad ramblings on Twitter, she claims that although she agreed to allow Activision to use the master recordings of Nirvana songs “Lithium” and “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” she did not allow them access to her husband’s likeness. Activision counters this claim, stating that Courtney Love signed a contract giving them full rights to make a playable character based on Cobain’s image.

Adding fuel to the fire, in a Tweet from her personal account, Courtney notes: “we get NO money for this, travesty, Frances gets NO money for the rape.”

Wow. There’s just so much wrong with that statement that I don’t even know where to begin. Apparently, it’s a demeaning “sell out” if her dead husband’s likeness is shown lip synching to Bon Jovi or Queen, but it’s perfectly justifiable “rape” if she receives some money for it. In that case, the “rape” would be upgraded to “surprise sex” and not nearly as harrowing since there’s a pay day in there somewhere. Leave it to Courtney Love to tug at the heart strings as only she can, lumping her offspring, “rape,” and “money” into the same sentence together.

When all else fails, however, the default action is to point the finger of blame at Dave Grohl, the perennial scapegoat (read: most overwhelmingly successful ex-member) of the Nirvana L.L.C. camp. Courtney went on a tear on her Twitter page, calling for Grohl to be “ass-raped” for his supposed hand in allowing this to happen. In turn, Grohl and Krist Novoselic, the surviving members of the band, issued a joint statement asking Activision to retract their decision to (re)animate their former lead singer:

“While we were aware of Kurt’s image being used with two Nirvana songs, we didn’t know players have the ability to unlock the character. This feature allows the character to be used with any kind of song the player wants. We urge Activision to do the right thing in “re-locking” Kurt’s character so that this won’t continue in the future.

It’s hard to watch an image of Kurt pantomiming other artists’ music alongside cartoon characters. Kurt Cobain wrote songs that hold a lot of meaning to people all over the world. We feel he deserves better.”

What I fail to understand is why there is such an outcry about Kurt Cobain being a playable character. Why is it that Kurt Cobain is some sort of sacred cow that must retain a level of “purity” somewhere between a unicorn and a bar of Ivory soap?

Really. What’s the big deal? The guy wrote cryptic, unintelligible lyrics that were only slightly less obtuse than his widow’s cryptic, unintelligible Tweets and MySpace blog entries. Maybe I just don’t get it, but I fail to see how saying “I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black” qualifies someone to be “The Voice of a Generation.”

I realize that saying “I think Kurt Cobain sucks” is one of those things that gets a person’s supposed “cool cred” revoked, but I take my “Cobain sucks” and dare to raise you a “I much prefer the Foo Fighters and find greater personal meaning in their music than I do any of Nirvana’s tunes.” I will raise the stakes even higher and say “I found Courtney Love to be a better songwriter whose music from the same era more accessibly conveyed the angst of a generation.” Yeah. That’s right. I said it.

As it pertains to Guitar Hero, it’s not like Cobain is the only musician who has been rendered into an unlockable, playable character. He joins Johnny Cash, Carlos Santana, Shirley Manson of Garbage, and Matt Bellamy of Muse in the ranks of the polygonal.

If we’re talking about what could possibly be perceived as demeaning to the legacy of a deceased celebrity, Johnny Cash is as iconic a musical folk hero as Kurt Cobain, if not more so. Yet, Johnny Cash is an unlockable, playable character in the exact same game with the exact same functionality as Kurt Cobain’s in-game character. You don’t see any of Cash’s family, fans, or colleagues claiming that they find it “disturbing” that gamers can make The Man in Black mouth the words to a Megadeth song if they so choose. No Cash fans have their knickers in a twist, shaking their fists that decades of his musical legacy are being undone, simply because you can play as an animated version of him in a video game.

Who deigned it that every time Kurt Cobain forcibly lip synchs to Billy Idol’s “Dancing With Myself” a kitten dies? Would there be a problem with Guitar Hero Kurt pantomiming “Bullet With Butterfly Wings”? (After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a Cobain mouthed the words to a Billy Corgan song.) Lighten up! It’s a fucking cartoon! It’s not like someone literally dug up Cobain’s corpse, pissed on it, and propped it up onstage for a rousing round of Weekend At Kurt’s.

In all honesty, I don’t see the harm in loaning out Nirvana’s music, or what’s so offensive about what is essentially a cartoon version of Kurt Cobain lip synching to Bon Jovi. If even religious icons are fair game to having their likenesses splattered with poop in the name of art, why is it that Kurt Cobain transcends any level of (perceived) mockery? Is it because music magazines can splash his picture up on the cover to push a few extra copies in a given month? I’m sure the same can’t be said if you saw the Virgin Mary on the cover of SPIN or Rolling Stone.

The real question here is: What’s so wrong with making a profit? The rallying cry of the alternative movement of the ‘90s was that “corporate rock” (meaning anything that was not released on an independent label) was bad, false, and loaded with pretense. It was a backlash against party anthems and odes to pole dancers by bands like Warrant and Poison. While guilty of abusing AquaNet and mixing leopard print with zebra print, you could hardly call either band “pretentious.”

Bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Stone Temple Pilots, and Alice in Chains were all lumped under the grunge/alternative banner. However, the only band to really take a political or protest stance was Pearl Jam. By contrast, the only thing Kurt Cobain ever protested was sobriety.

Any of those aforementioned bands that are still around or former members who have gone to create new music of their own have taken the next logical step and evolved their music over time. As people (and artists) age and experience different phases of their lives, their art reflects it. Most of these guys aren’t a fraction as angry or miserable as they were in the ’90s. And chances are, had Kurt Cobain not taken himself out of the equation and were still creating music, he probably wouldn’t be as whiny or depressed as he was in Nirvana’s heyday.

For all of the idealistic grandstanding that ‘90s alternative devotees engage in, grunge was no different than any other reactionary form of music to come along and supplant the popular style that came before it. Grunge may have changed the musical landscape of the time, but it’s no different than any other genre of music that a generation grew up with, felt a sort of kinship with, and fell in love with. The hippies have their Woodstock-era bands, the children of the ‘80s have neon-tinged pop and spandex rock, and the current generation - for better or worse - is inextricably bonded to Brittney, et al.

Ultimately, what is so wrong with an arguably talented band being able to make a career off of doing what they love? How is making money, even if it means signing a Faustian pact with a record company, such a bad thing? Thanks to the internet, we all know how little bands actually make off of record deals. However, if a band is successful enough to make a go of it, who is hurt by the band’s success? Aren’t they entitled to some reward for baring their soul through their art?

With that in mind, let’s call a spade a spade. Courtney Love still wants to be “the girl with the most cake.” She wants the cash that results from licensing Nirvana’s music and Cobain’s likeness to other companies, yet she doesn’t want the ire of the fans branding her a “sell out.” The result is Courtney attempting to backpedal her way to favor and calling Activision — and anyone else remotely associated — to task.

That said, what’s stopping Courtney Love from making a buck off of her own talents?

Nobody’s Daughter, the album Love has had in the works for nearly five years, has been repeatedly pushed back. Chances are, it just may be pushed back yet again until next year. Further complicating issues are whether or not Nobody’s Daughter will be released as a Courtney Love affair, or as a Hole reunion album. Although it was reported that Melissa Auf Der Maur may play bass for the disc along with an unnamed drummer, and Micko Larkin on guitar. Former Hole guitarist and co-founder, Eric Erlandson has remained mum on any involvement, which may put the kibosh on a proper Hole-as-Hole reunion. Contractually, a stipulation exists that there cannot be a reunion without approval or involvement from Erlandson, who supposedly co-owns the Hole name/trademark along with Love.

At this rate, Nobody’s Daughter just may cement Courtney Love’s reputation as the female Axl Rose and stand as her own personal Chinese Democracy.

Truth be told, in spite of her whacky antics, I want Courtney Love to release Nobody’s Daughter. All of her tantrums aside, Courtney Love has done some great music both on her own and with Hole. She puts on amazing live shows. Back in 1999, was fortunate enough to catch her on Hole’s “Celebrity Skin” tour. Granted, she showed up an hour and a half late, even though HBO’s Reverb concert series was there to tape it for a televised episode. Despite her threats to the audience to walk off the stage if they didn’t cheer like mad for (then new) drummer, Samantha Maloney, the show was top notch. When the girl’s on, she’s spot on. Courtney Love is ballsy, fearless, talented, and can command an audience like no other. While she’s undeniably feminine onstage, there’s something very aggressive and dirtily masculine about her mannerisms that make her so much fun to watch as a balls-out frontwoman. Vocally, there’s something comforting in her weathered, gritty voice. It lacks the blues-factor of Janis Joplin, but when she sings live, Love can unleash all of her strengths and frailties in a single phrase.

It’s a pity Courtney hasn’t spent more energy on putting out another album instead of farting around on her MySpace blog and Twitter.

~ for my friend, MB

It’s been a few months since I’ve turned 30 and, so far, no magical Maturity Fairy has descended to drop some serious knowledge on my ass. It’s not much different from when I turned 18 and the Adult Wisdom Fairy failed to put in an appearance. It seems only fitting that 30 is as equally anti-climactic as legal adulthood, what with the current cultural trend of “30 is the new 18.”

In this youth-obsessed culture, more and more of us are rapidly regressing towards our teen years. Everyone I know, including people younger than me to people 65+ years of age, have feelings that aren’t that far removed from high school. There’s something about 29 – that onus of being on the cusp of something potentially bigger, brighter, and perhaps more solemn – that makes that second wind of adolescence all the more poignant.

It’s not much different than the feeling you get when you’re (to cop a phrase from The Sound of Music) “17 going on 18.” You believe you’re going to set the world on fire and break free from the tyrannical rule of your teachers, principals, and parents once that status of legal adulthood is granted. At 30, it’s a different sort of tyranny you find yourself railing against, still wanting to make your mark. Compared to the world of responsibilities that come with “adulthood” such as jobs and “serious” relationships, life at home with Mom and Dad seems like an unappreciated sanctuary you wish you could crawl back to.

Considering the economic climate of the times, that feeling is only exacerbated. That love/hate relationship with your oppressive employer in the downright shitty job market is further complicated. Greener pastures are ready to be sought, but they’re nowhere in sight. At the same time, you find yourself thinking, “Shit, I’m lucky just to have a job,” while still hoping you can someday live out your dreams as your 401K goes to shit and the prospect of cat food becoming a large part of your “Golden Years” looms ever-closer.

When you’re 29 going on 30, that three-decade milestone makes you wonder why you’re not where you envisioned yourself being at 30 when you were 17. It seemed so simple with no roadblocks on that map to success. But now… The clock is ticking. The race is on to make your mark and achieve the elusive happy ending. And sometimes, except for the lucky few, those things are harder and slower to come by than you would have ever dreamed.

Contrary to what you were fed in high school and/or college, it’s a much bleaker picture. In this day and age of bicycle crash helmets, pet therapists, and all manner of molly-coddling, the harsh truth isn’t discovered until you’re out there shopping resumés, manuscripts, or even your telephone number at a club during last call to anyone who may seem even remotely interested. That, my friend, is the much-vaunted “pursuit of happiness.”

I’m sure everyone has, had, or will have their own take on 29, but as for me, I found it to come with euphoric highs and bottom-scraping lows. That whole thing about reverting to a teenage state of mind? It came back in spades during my Trials of 29.

For instance, I found myself searching for deeper meaning in some seriously weird shit…like the sound a computer makes as its shutting down. I wondered if Bill Gates purposefully commissioned that tinkling, four-note synth/piano soundbyte that rings out as you power down. There’s something final, yet open-ended about it. A little sweet, yet a little sad. Like Windows knows you’ll eventually log on again, and that this is just a temporary goodbye for now. I found myself wishing that humans could have a little noise like that to signal to everyone around them that they’re (physically and emotionally) shutting down, too.

Still in keeping with technology-inspired personal breakthroughs, I found myself embracing the social bookmarking trend favored by tweens, teens and 20-somethings –immersing myself in MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter culture. In doing so, I came to the revelation that many of my MySpace default photos showed me flipping the bird at the camera, which is always a hallmark of wisdom. I’ve also taken great pride in the fact that I inform those on my friends lists of exactly how I’m feeling. Whether I had taken a good, hearty shit or found myself constipated, “the truth was out there.”

I’m not saying that it’s not okay for people over the age of 30 to have a MySpace or Facebook page, but sometimes you have to take a step back and give yourself a smirking pat on the back for shrugging off so-called “maturity” and diving into the void of voyeurism and self-superstardom. Then again, why is it “immature” to dismiss passive-aggressive, “I’m smiling on the outside but crying on the inside” conventions? What’s wrong with acknowledging that your Facebook photo can silently say what you can’t, bearing in mind that things like eating and maintaining a roof over your head are something of a priority and might be jeopardized by expressing this to your employer in a face-to-face setting. There were days, however, where this sentiment carried over into “real life,” finding myself going so far as scrawling a prison-like “Fuck This” across my knuckles with a ballpoint pen during particularly frustrating days at work.

Another staple of my youth that I reverted to was drinking.

Heavily.

I found myself engaging in the sort of binge drinking I hadn’t done since I was in high school, when suckin’ back on the sauce was legally verboten and every drop of booze was a precious commodity. However, at 29, I drank with friends, and (like George Thorogood) I drank alone. I hid bottles in my closet from my tee-totaling boyfriend who would simultaneously offer me the Devil’s Advocate treatment after I had a hard day at work before turning on a dime and chastising me for wanting to imbibe from the Fount of Artificial Means of Mellowing Out.

Since I was well over the legal drinking age, I found myself becoming increasingly more innovative with my alcohol-related activities, going so far as to lay down a “Three Drink Minimum” for myself when drinking with friends and then devising the “One Hour Pub Crawl,” which involved drinking one beverage per bar and seeing how many bars it was possible to hit in an hour.

Then, in what may have been the pinnacle of alternating fits of clean living and self-destruction, I found myself downing my very first Irish Car Bomb (a shot each of Bailey’s and Jameson dropped into a pint of Guinness) moments before engaging in a hardcore upper body workout and military pressing 60 lbs. above my head. It doesn’t get much more stupid and reckless than that.

It didn’t really prove anything (except that drinking can sometimes enhance a workout), yet it was something I felt compelled to do, if only to say that I had done it. There’s something oddly exhilarating about taking a mundane activity to the extreme, elevating it to a level of functional and reasonably acceptable debauchery.

Then there were the really simple pleasures. Rite Aid became my particular homebase for a variety of strange doings, perhaps the tamest of which was launching into an impromptu dance set to the in-store radio’s selection of Enrique Iglesias’ “Escape” in the feminine hygiene products aisle. It was at Rite Aid where I pondered the mystery of why there are no greeting cards catering to the niche market of phone sex friends and it was Rite Aid where I amassed an assemblage of items that proclaimed to the world (or, at least the cashier) that I was someone who favored homeopathic cures for yeast infections, relied upon Ramen and Oreos as comfort food, and read tabloid smut in the crapper while meticulously moisturizing in an attempt to stave off the aging process as early as possible.

Beyond these self-revelations, I’ve found myself using the latest technology to continue a favorite pastime of my teen years. Blogging has replaced the volumes of bad poetry I had scribbled in spiral-bound notebooks and frequent mood status updates have become the “professional” equivalent of passing notes in school. Additionally, the “playlist” feature on my iPod makes it so much easier to create a queue of songs to compliment my myriad of mood swings. Whereas, back in high school, I would have to manually cue up the tape deck to play Air Supply’s “Makin’ Love Out of Nothing At All” as the backdrop to a sad, self-performed sock puppet re-enactment of my latest love life drama, I now have a playlist chock full of Manson n’ Morrissey at the ready to brawl or bawl to! Outstanding! All my old favorites are still on my iPod along with newer discoveries.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t until I turned 29 that I realized just how many songs feature lyrics about being 29 or are just devoted to that bizarre year of life. While I was in high school, I’d always looked to music for cathartic solace. Over a decade later, that hasn’t changed. In fact, I realize a lot of song writers find 29 as trying a time, if not moreso, than their high school years. Proof of this sentiment can be found in the Gin Blossoms’ “29″ and in The National’s “29 Years” and “Slow Show,” which features a line that sums up the 29 milestone perfectly: “I leaned on the wall / The wall leaned away.”

Is it any wonder that even Shakespeare may have been onto something when he created one of his most conflicted and soliloquy-spouting characters, Hamlet? Many scholars debate that Hamlet was 29 or 30 when the major events of the Bard’s tragedy occur. Coupled with the fact that he’s a university student, initially, it would seem that Hamlet’s mood swings are typical of an overly emotional teen or young adult. Taking a step back, it makes perfect sense that Hamlet is 29 or 30. He exhibits the sense of wherewithal to not display all his cards on the table, although he still carries with him lofty ideals as it pertains to moral realms concerning family and politics. On the flipside, in spite of his reflective nature, he reacts impulsively, often with destructive and self-destructive consequences.

In a nutshell, that describes being 29. Deep thoughts and world-weary observations meet up against the borders of doing completely stupid shit just for the sake of doing it. An impending sense of mortality creeps up, and essentially, it is the death of your 20s. You’re forced to call into question where you are and where you’re going. It’s a repeat of turning 18 and graduating high school all over again. This time, the stakes are higher and you’ve gotten more of a taste of the alternating fits of disappointment and hopefulness that life has to offer.

It’s a year full of highs and lows. Looking back, I remember that for one solid month during my tenure at 29, I felt really and truly happy – so happy, in fact, that when catching up with an old friend in a group setting, one friend remarked, “Yeah, you missed it. Lana was happy for a whole month.” The operative words in that sentence being “missed it”… As in, “blink and you.” Conversely, there was an entire month that I was pretty damn depressing to be around. It happens. It just so happens that 29 is the age that brings about a hyper-awareness of these things.

While 30 hasn’t brought about an epiphany, to a degree, I’m glad to be out of that awkward year known as 29. I don’t feel any wiser and don’t feel any closer to unlocking deeper truths within myself and the universe. Unless you count the minor epiphany of realizing that, when you’re drunk, it’s much better to show your friends embarrassing pictures someone else sent to you instead of taking embarrassing pictures of yourself and sending them to someone else.

It’s not much, but at least it’s a small shred of wisdom to cling to and carry into the next decade and beyond.

Is America sick of John and Kate Plus 8? TLC doesn’t seem to think so as evidenced by their ad nauseum marathoning of the show this weekend in 24 hour blocks. As if the steady stream of online tabloid reports on the fertile philanderers’ daily doings wasn’t enough, TLC has gone into John and Kate overload, hyping the newest season of their reality TV show by airing back-to-back-to-back episodes.

I’ve been sick of John, Kate, and their unwieldy horde for awhile now. Mind you, I’ve never seen an entire episode of the show, but have been exposed to dozens of commercials for the series. I would cringe every time I saw one while watching Miami Ink, L.A. Ink or some of the other tattoo-related shows that used to air on TLC. Miami Ink however, has been cancelled to make room for more shows about people with Ma and Pa Kettle-sized broods like the new Table for 12 and 18 Kids and Counting. There’s yet another new show devoted to “little people” called The Little Couple which seems more like a prelude to Little People, Big World.

You can practically see some programming exec sitting in his leather swivel chair at TLC headquarters saying “Let’s get some more midgets up in this piece!” (Need I mention that the executive is probably some 40-something, uber-white yuppie attempting to incorporate what he believes to be hip, urban slang into his boardroom vernacular?)

Does anyone else remember when TLC stood for “The Learning Channel”? There’s very little “learning” to be had anymore. Hell, half of the stars of its reality-based programming haven’t learned how to use a condom yet. Now the network features programming so inane that it makes Daisy of Love look like Meet the Press by comparison.

TLC’s “new” programming is all more of the same. More midgets. More ferociously fecund families. More shows attempting to teach haggard haus fraus how to dress.

To be fair, even Miami Ink spawned more tattoo shows, saturating the airwaves with spin-offs like L.A. Ink with Kat Von D and the short-lived London Ink. In keeping with what seems to have been a “more drama” mandate handed down by the TLC powers on high, Miami Ink deviated from its original, relatively drama-free format that focused on tattooing as an art form with four renowned artists. By the time it reached its fourth and final season, the show was more of a soap opera for heavily-inked dudes than it was about the business and art of tattooing.

Discovery seems to be the only educational-themed channel holding up its end of the bargain with a variety of eco-themed shows rounding out its schedule in addition to the ubiquitous American Chopper (which has also succumbed to the “more drama, less craft” formula).

Although it’s a separate network from Discovery, TLC, et. al., the History Channel and A&E are picking up on the current trend favoring sensationalism over knowledge. As it stands, the History Channel should just rename itself the Apocalypse Channel. Every time I turn the History Channel on, there’s very little “history” to be had. Instead, there are numerous shows detailing how the world just might end – be it by comet, Mayan prophecy, or unforeseen ecological disaster. The channel probably isn’t too far off from announcing its fall lineup including The Nostradamus Quatrain n’ Comedy Hour or The Illuminati Variety Show to tie in with whatever Dan Brown book is hitting theatres or the Netflix queue.

If the History Channel hasn’t totally fixated itself on apocalyptic speculation and it’s a slow week, you can always count on a show or two about Hitler. (Hmm… The Hitler Channel! Now that has a certain ring to it!) The History Channel doesn’t even do shows about Hitler, but more of the sensationalistic, mystically-themed exploits of the Third Reich, such as Hitler’s co-opting of Norse Mythology to pimp his Master Race. (I think I’ve seen this particular show five times already.)

It seems that the History Channel has become blissfully unaware that there are other historical figures than Hitler. Even if they’re stuck on WWII, there are other aspects to explore about that period in history. How about a splash of Hirohito? What’s wrong with a dab of Mussolini every so often? Hell, Night At the Museum: Battle For the Smithsonian probably features more historical figures than the History Channel does right now. It’s a rather sad state of affairs when you find yourself looking to Ben Stiller as a de facto history teacher instead of a bunch of networks that claim to espouse learning.

And yet, it all comes back to John and Kate and their plus eight. I can’t fault them for wanting the network to subsidize their mansion, the bodyguard that Kate’s banging on the side, or the revolving door full of nannies and hired help who are actually parenting the couple’s kids. However, I blame the programming executives for indulging them, and in turn, using the banner of learning and education to create subpar pseudo-celebrities out of self-entitled suburbanites who have so little in the way of substance to offer to the world that they make Paris Hilton look like a Nobel Peace Prize winner. Granted, Kate seems to have a talent for emasculating her husband once or twice per episode, and John is pretty darn good at impersonating a eunuch. In light of the current events of “John and Kate-Gate,” it’s not hard to understand why John’s seeking validation from outside sources and screwing around on Kate and her Marcy D’arcy hairdo. In the immortal words of Whitney Houston, “It’s not right… But it’s okay.”

Personally, I can’t wait for a show focusing on the couple’s extra-marital affairs. They could call it “John and Kate Fornicate”! Think about it… It would be brilliant! They won’t even have to pretend to parent their children anymore! Kate could even manage to squeeze out another ghost-written book deal out of it, too!

Maybe TLC and its satellite networks should consider getting back to the basics of their programming. Better yet, if TLC is so hell-bent on zeroing in on a certain demographic, why not focus on real families that people can relate to? Chances are, if you’ve had infertility problems and can afford to seek out specialists, much less carry eight children to term and make the decision to raise them in a cozy, upper-echelon Philadelphia suburb, than perhaps John and Kate aren’t the Everyman and Woman that they’re made out to be. Rather, TLC is trying to pander to its audience by making them believe they have something in common with spoiled celebutards.

Instead of cramming John, Kate, and all the other rubber-chuckers on their lineup, TLC could set itself apart from the deluge of drek and feature shows focusing on real families struggling to make ends meet during the recession. Why not have “What Not to Wear” do a special, Salvation Army episode with Clinton and Stacy slumming it on a budget? Instead of shows like Say Yes to the Dress, why not do a show on how to put together a classy, meaningful wedding ceremony on a budget, rather than building up unrealistic expectations and going into debt before the ink on the marriage license is even dried?

It may not be glamorous to see families trying to make it on a single income, but chances are, there are a lot more people that could identify with those more pressing struggles than merely dodging fame.

To be fair, each section of Philadelphia has its own unique vibe. In that sense, it really is “the city of neighborhoods.” In addition to the distinct brand of ambiance native to each part of the city, some areas of Philly have a better sense of fashion than others.

You’ve got your uppity, Main Line society types, many of whom plan on dousing themselves with pastel shades of Lilly Pulitzer with the onset of Spring. North Philly has its streetwise, uptown thug style and West Philadelphia follows suit, with some “hipster” fashion thrown in for good measure, depending on if whether you happen to be up or down from 34th St. South Philly is also an enclave of hipster-attire, as is some of Center City, although, as a rule, Center City is something of a melting pot in terms of people and fashion for Philadelphians. South Philly (and the parts of Fishtown swarming with fresh-off-the-boat Albanians) favors the neo-Guido look of nylon tracksuits and gold chains nestled on a bed of thick chest hair.

Like I said, some parts of the city feature better dressers than others.

I happen to live in the Northeast part of Philly — AKA - The Land That Style Never Touched. With the possible exception of Manayunk, you won’t find a more shoddily turned-out area of the city. (While the Northeast owns up to its White Trash status and makes no pretense about it, Manayunk/Roxborough is home to the bizarre dichotomy of the White Trash Yuppie. Its geographical locale at the tip of Montgomery County renders it as close to a suburb as you can get while still technically being considered part of Philadelphia (which could account for such white trash snobbery). That said, the Northeast suffers from a severe lack of snappy dressers.

On my daily commute to and from work, I’ve seen some pretty heinous outfits. Pick up a magazine from five, maybe ten years ago. That’s what you’ll see on any given day in 2009 in the Northeast. It’s small town fashion at its worst, transposed to the big city: Printed turtlenecks with tiny patterns worn under bulky sweaters. Velour track suits. Tight sweatpants that yield a tantalizing glimpse of camel toe (or “moose knuckle,” depending on how big it is). All your old favorites are there!

And heaven forbid you actually put some thought or (dare I say it) pride into putting together your attire! If you do, you’ll find yourself treated to the Stink-Eye Supreme by some Hagen Dazs-huffing hippo with her hair tacked into a high bun whose muffin top threatens to eclipse the side pockets of her unfortunately skin tight jeans.

Conversely, for every fashion victim riding SEPTA, I’ve seen some pretty creative dressers on the bus, too. No one (myself included) busts out the Versace to ride SEPTA. (Not that I own anything by Versace. Except for a kick ass pair of sunglasses that would do Elton John proud!) That’s not to say you can’t dress well on a (very low) budget.

This past week, I saw a very “unique” ensemble worn by one of the passengers on the 84 bus. While it wasn’t the pinacle of fashion, I have to hand it to the girl for creativity.

I see a lot of crazy things on the 84 from time to time. One of the strangest I had seen over the years was the trend of “conjugal visit Polaroids.” The 84 bus passes by a local Philadelphia prison. The bus is usually packed with people coming to and from visiting their loved ones during the morning and afternoon commutes. On a few separate occasions, I’ve seen visitors on the bus returning from their visit clutching Polaroids of themselves and their favorite inmate.

One day, I had to do a double-take when I saw a girl wearing the same outfit as she was on the bus in the Polaroid photo she was clutching with her prison beau’s arms wrapped around her like they were at the prom. Only in lieu of formalwear, the girl was wearing denim capri’s and layers of pastel polo shirts and a neon tank top and her “date” was clad in the standard-issue orange jumpsuit of the Philadelphia House of Corrections. His arms were delicately draped around her waist as they stood together, her back to his chest, both smiling prettily for the camera.

The only thing missing were the requisite balloons, streamers, and trellis full of flowers behind them and it could have been a snapshot from an oddly-themed prom. Forget “A Night Under the Stars”! Here comes “A Night Behind Bars”!

This wasn’t the first time I had seen the Conjugal Visit Polaroid on the bus… And it wouldn’t be the last.

Apparently, some of the visitors really get creative when they know they’re going to have a photo opportunity with their beloved behind bars. On their way back from a visit to the penitentiary, one woman and either her sister or her inmate-boyfriend’s sister had brought several young children with them for what would presumably be a family portrait. Both girls and all of the kids were wearing matching red t-shirts.

Lo and behold, one of the girls was clutching a Polaroid. My curiosity piqued, I looked over and wouldn’t you know it, but it was yet another Conjugal Visit Polaroid. In the photo, the girls were holding their kids on their laps and seated at the feet of the only person in the photo not wearing a red t-shirt. One of the kids was sitting on the inmate/boyfriend/brother’s lap. It struck me that this could be the family Christmas card if you Photoshopped Santa hats on everyone in a red shirt and a white beard on the inmate – if Santa wore an orange jumpsuit.

I don’t know if that was the original intent behind this impromptu family photo, but it sure looked that way.

That’s not to say that I’m downing the idea of Prison Polaroids. Inmates are human, too, and deserve time with their families and friends who love them. It’s actually quite nice that the family is allowed to have a memento of the person who can’t be a part of their everyday lives due to incarceration. However, I often wonder how these photographs happen the way they do. The matching red shirts (that would undoubtedly clash with the orange jumpsuit) and prom-like atmosphere in these photos certainly merits a hearty “What the FUCK!?”

While I’ve seen some doozies, this week however, I saw the most creative combination of Conjugal Visit Polaroids and fashion that I may have ever seen. Ever.

Either that, or a heralding sign of the Apocalypse.

It was a crowded rush hour ride home when a gaggle of prison visitors got on at their stop. It was standing room only and one girl wearing a hoodie had situated herself in front of me. The hood of her sweatshirt was up and I was afforded a full-on look at the back of her carefully airbrushed hoodie.

In that instant, I was kicking myself for not having my camera ready or having a good enough angle to inconspicuously capture this image for all time with my cell phone camera.

On the back of her hoodie was a giant, airbrushed portrait of the hoodie-wearer and her imprisoned boyfriend captured for posterity in their very own Conjugal Visit Polaroid. Only instead of being placed in a photo album, there it was — big as day and splattered across the back of a very dubious fashion statement.

If that don’t grab your attention as a fashion statement, nothing will!

The airbrushed photo on the back of the hoodie still had the familiar white border of a Polaroid snapshot as part of the artistically rendered design, framing the prom-like, posed photo of the two lovebirds — one of which was a jailbird.

Before I could find an inconspicuous way to snap a shot with my piece of shit cell phone of this miraculous monument to love behind bars and airbrushed fashion, the girl hopped into an open seat, the back of her hoodie obscured for the remainder of the ride.

Son of a bitch!

I may not have been able to take a picture of it, but someday soon, I hope to capture the rare, elusive prize of the Conjugal Visit Hoodie on film. Hey, if someone can get shots of Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster, damn skippy, I will get a photo of this article of clothing perhaps more mythical than the Shroud of Turin itself. For now, dear reader, my mere description will have to suffice and the Conjugal Visit Hoodie shall remain the stuff of legend.

Okay. I think I’ve seen it all now. I’ve heard of foot fetishes, BDSM fetishes… Hell, even scat and water sports fetishes. But a CHEESE FETISH?! More specifically, a SWISS CHEESE FETISH!? You gotta be fucking kidding me!

Craigslist, that great provider of hilarity, gifted me with this utter gem this morning: (As a word of warning, this link includes some very NSFW photos, one of which is this weirdo’s dong wrapped in a slice of Swiss cheese. I kid you not.)

Jesus. I couldn’t even make this shit up.

For the link-phobic and those who are lactose-penis intolerant and would prefer to read without visual accompaniment, here are some highlights from the original Craigslist posting, complete with commentary:

“What my fetish is, is considered a food play fetish. What that means is food is use in either a sexual or non sexual way to provide sexual stimulation and or arousal and pleasure. I like when cheese is use in a sexual manner to provide arousal and pleasure, specifically Swiss cheese, although I am open to any cheese as well.I love the way Swiss cheese feels against my penis. Either as slices of Swiss cheese being wrapped around my penis or a chunk of Swiss cheese being rubbed against my penis. I love even more when a woman uses the Swiss cheese to pleasure me. Or simply wraps Swiss cheese slices around my penis and allows me to hang out with her as I wear the cheese.”

BWAAAAAHHAAAAHHAA!!! Oh, boy!  That’s rich!! Can you imagine hanging out with this dude, thinking you’re going to just watch TV, grab a beer or something and he’s got his junk wrapped up like Chicken Cordon Bleu?

But wait… It gets better:

“I tried many different kinds of cheese, like American, Provolone, chez whiz, jack, and cheddar, but settled on Swiss as the best. First and foremost, if ever a picture of cheese is used, most of the time they use a representation of Swiss cheese. But also because of it’s eye patterns, texture, and the way it feels against my penis….”

I love the rationale this guy uses. According to him, his justification for finding Swiss cheese so attractive is that when one requires a model of aged dairy, the image of Swiss cheese is called forth as its most stellar representation. By this guy’s standards, Swiss cheese is like the Playboy Playmate of cheese. 

Ooookaaay.

But wait! It gets even better!

“Some of the crazy things I used to do, was wrap a pound of slice Swiss cheese around my penis, wrap a bag around it, and secure it to my penis with rubber bands, then put my pants up, and go to local malls to check out the girls there. It was always my hope that a group of girls or a single girl would come up to me, and ask me about the bulge in my pants, in which I would tell her it was Swiss cheese, and ask if she was interested in doing it for me. It never happened tho.”

Oh, boy. We’re dealing with a genius here. Did it not occur to this mook that wearing an entire pound of cheese wrapped around perhaps the most disgustingly warm part of his anatomy would smell kinda funky? To hell with Drakar Noir and Polo! You’ll be beating the girls off with a stick when you wear the new, highly aphrodisiac scent of Cheese Dick!!

I mean, REALLY! This brother stuffs an entire deli case around his meat wand and and trots to the mall hoping that chicks will be checking him and his batch out. Are you SERIOUS?! If you’ve seen a picture of this cat, this guy is a CLASSIC case of one of those heinous dudes who think that just because they’re packing a wad in their shorts, chicks will FLOCK to them. Sorry, chief. We ladies look at what’s above the belt and the rest of the package… Not just THE package. Ew.

What the hell goes through someone’s head while doing this? He’s fixin’ up a batch of dick d’oeuvres in his shorts and is probably thinking, “Yeah. I bet the ladies will be checking me out. Ooooh, baby! I can’t WAIT for a whole gaggle of them to come up and ask me just what big daddy’s packin’. They’re going to be SO turned on! Hmmm… Should I bring some Russian dressing with me just in case I meet a nice Jewish girl who has a hankering for a Reuben?”

Thankfully, our friend the cheese afficionado clears things up by disclosing that he, in fact, does not eat the cheese after gettin’ busy with it. Well, that just makes it so much more normal now!

“One last note, I do not like cheese, except for mozzarella, and that is the one cheese I have never used on myself.”

Nice to know he draws the line somewhere.

“So no I do not eat the cheese after I am done using it for pleasure, it is discarded. I am always asked that question too.”

Uh… How many people does this guy actually tell that he likes to play with his Cheez Doodle to neccessitate a number of people asking him whether or not he eats the cheese after he’s finished?  To think that there are starving people in the world that might actually enjoy that cheese for its intended use. Wow. Talk about wastefulness during this recession.

On second thought… Dude, I don’t care if you don’t eat the cheese after you’re done with it, there’s no way in hell I’d eat a sandwich at your house. Or eat a sandwich ever again, for that matter. Suddenly, the condiment “Miracle Whip” takes on an entirely new — and significantly more disgusting meaning. Yick.

Seriously. The human race never fails to surprise me.  Nor does the fact that this Craigslist posting came out of Philadelphia.

As utterly fucking weird and disturbing as this dude may be, here’s hoping he eventually finds a woman gouda-’nuff for him that can tolerate his fetish!   (Sorry.  Cheezy pun…. Literally.)

This past week, I received word from back home that my favorite high school teacher was busted for possession of marijuana. On one hand, it doesn’t surprise me as my former teacher was quite a free spirit, but on the other, it bugs me that small town cops have nothing better to do than shake down a 66-year-old man with a lighter and a dimebag.

Although I never knew my teacher used to blaze up, nor did I ever smoke with him back in the day, I used to chat with him a lot about friends, students, teachers and life in general.. “D” (as his students fondly referred to him) was/is an incredibly bright, charismatic man saddled with the job of teaching kids who didn’t really share his enthusiasm for his classes subject matter. As a teacher, he tried to make things as interesting as possible. As a person, he was so real, funny and insanely cool that I would bail on gym class to hang out with D and hear his thoughts on things… As did a lot of other students and former students.

I was pretty bummed hearing about his arrest and definitely want to write to him and wish him well. D was always very supportive of me during my high school years and just an all-around good guy. Hearing this news from back home, it made me think about my teen and college years. During those days, barring a handful of adult figures important in my life, music was a big part of getting me through rough patches.

In college, I found myself taking up the habit of indulging in the sticky-icky. Back in the day, my favorite thing that I used to do to unwind was to smoke up, kick back on my bed with my stuffed pal Sammy, plug in the headphones and crank up some music as loud as it could go. In my Purple Sticky Punge haze, I would hear subtle nuances of vocals and instrumentation in the music. Once, I thought I had heard Motley Crue speaking directly to me from the confines of their Generation Swine CD…But that’s another story.. (That must have been some really good shit that night!)

It’s been almost a decade since I’ve smoked up, but I felt a tribute to D was in order. As an adult rolling up on 30 whose job piss-tests randomly, there was no way I could go back to my carefree days as an aficionado of that green goodness. I did the next best thing, however, and plugged in my headphones, grabbed Sammy, and sat back to soak in a shuffled playlist and the knowledge it brings. Reassured that with close to 8,000 songs on my iPod, this would truly be a venture into randomly uncharted territory.

Kneeling at the Tree of Knowledge that is Bell Biv Devoe’s “Poison”, I pondered the insightful nature of the group’s suggestion: “Never trust a big butt and a smile.” While this certainly holds true for males of the species, if this New Jack Swing classic were to be covered by females, perhaps the granule of wisdom to women would be to “never trust a pretty boy with child-bearing hips.” (True dat, BBD. True dat.)
The opening strains of “Ziggy Stardust” built around Mick Ronson’s iconic riff brought to mind the type of music that would be played at a grand, pre-Revolutionary era France masquerade ball held by Louis XIV on a futuristic space station. Go ahead. Play that riff in your head again and tell me that it doesn’t sound like an electrified harpsichord.

All musical musings aside on the song, I’m still lost as to what the hell “He was the nazz / With God-given ass” actually means. I don’t know what the hell a “nazz” is, but I’m grateful for the images of David Bowie’s spandex jumpsuit-clad dumper doing its androgynous bump and grind that lyric conjures.

Even more open to interpretation is the Rolling Stones’ “Waiting On a Friend.” With a possibility of multiple meanings, the song could be an ode to either fuck buddies or bromance with its refrain of “I’m not waiting on a lady / I’m just waiting on a friend.”

In favor of the former, it could signify a weariness of dealing with bitches with baggage, giving up hope that a worthy soulmate exists; eschewing all thoughts of real love in favor of a string of slam pieces and bang maids while waiting for a true lady friend to enter the picture. Mick Jagger ain’t holdin’ his breath, but he’s certainly philosophizing about it.

On the other hand, the song could just be talking about trading war stories with an understanding friend – a monument to the sentiment of “bros before hoes,” if you will. Long before Entourage and the concept of “bromance” being entrenched in our daily vernacular, Mick and Keith were known as the Glimmer Twins. Although this terrible twosome probably could have wrung more liquor from their livers than the rank amateurs on Celebrity Rehab combined, “Waiting on a Friend</i> sheds some possible insight that maybe there was a lot more to Mick and Keith than just boozin’ it up — that some real deep conversations about life and love ensued in their ’70s alcohol-addled states.

Although rock fans are usually divided into two groups, split down the middle by a distinct preference for either the Beatles or the Stones (not necessarily disliking one, but merely preferring the other), Mick and company don’t get nearly as much credit for the surprisingly thought-provoking lyrical nature of some of their songs. “Waiting on a Friend” proves it.

Switching gears from introspection on the ol’ playlist, an oldie but goodie drops into earshot with Billy Idol’s “Cradle of Love.” Damn, I forgot how much this song rocked! The beauty of “Cradle of Love” is that its meaning is straight-forward and simple: Billy Idol’s gettin’ busy with hot, young chicks and it’s fucking awesome. He’s not robbing the cradle. He’s rocking it (and probably the bedposts, too). Aside from hearing a faint tinge of Elvis in Billy’s voice, there’s nothing deep or profound about this song. Its sole purpose is to be enjoyed and maybe used as a soundtrack to getting your own freak on.

From there, a newer favorite fades in through my headphones. You know it as “Mr. Brightside.” I know it as “the song that made me fall in love with The Killers.” In less than three minutes, it perfectly summarizes that awful, gnawing feeling in your stomach that you get when the guy you really, really liked that you asked out two weeks ago and who turned you down on the grounds that “Oh, I think you’re a great girl, but right now I can’t feel anything for anyone” suddenly shows up at a party at your friend’s house with his skanky, miniskirt-wearing new girlfriend and he starts dropping things and making her bend over to pick them up while making like R. Kelly and feelin’ on her booty RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!!

Not that that’s ever happened to me before. Just sayin’.

For you young whippersnappers out there experiencing heartbreak sometime after 1997, think of “Mr. Brightside” as describing the crippling emotion you feel when your ex or your crush suddenly switches their MyStalk or (Sit on my) Facebook profile status to “In a relationship”…. And you know that person they’re “in a relationship” with isn’t you.

As he proves that voyeurism (even when it’s internalized) can be a very, very bad thing, Brandon Flowers sounds just so damn beautiful and pitiful at the same time. And yet, “Mr. Brightside” has that warped sense of humor needed to get over that emotional speedbump. The part of me that has a 12-year-old boy’s sense of humor instantly fell in love with this song on the basis of the lyric: “Now they’re going to bed / And my stomach is sick / And it’s all in my head / But she’s touching his….Chest now.” The clever swerve towards another part of the body just when you thought he was going to drop a banal word like “dick” into a poetic and emotionally tortured ballad made me swoon as a gutter-minded grammarian.

From my prepubescent humor to my iPod’s own sadistic sense of humor, “Mr. Brightside” is followed by the double-whammy of “How Soon is Now” by The Smiths and Britney Spears’ “Womanizer.” On some strange level, these distinctly different songs are actually two sides of the same coin . Morrissey may rank as the Godfather of Emo with a doctorate in depression and “How Soon is Now” standing as his master thesis, but Britney knows a thing or two about heartache, too.

While Morrissey lays it all out there, Britney puts on a brave show of bravado while addressing said “Womanizer.” However, there is a single moment in the song’s breakdown where Britney drops the armor and allows herself to fall into a moment of reverie, saying “Maybe if we both lived in a different world / It would be all good and maybe I could be your girl / But we can’t / ‘Cause we don’t.” In that split second, she snaps out of it. The song is all scathing sarcasm and righteous anger, but those lines open another window to a sad, regretful backstreet.

The dance-factor of both songs adds to their unlikely similarities, too. Go into a goth club and even 25 years later, its dance floor denizens flail their arms in that weird, Bela-Lugosi-attempts-to-Vogue sort of thing they do to the pulsating guitar wails on “How Soon is Now.” The vision if solitary goths dancing with themselves (oh-oh-oh-oh!) nails home the song’s most poignant lyric, “There’s a club if you’d like to go / You could meet somebody who really loves you / So you go and you stand on your own and you leave on your own / And you go home and you cry and you want to die.” It’s so direct and without any flowery language that it doesn’t get more real than that.

Conversely, go into any mainstream dance club (straight or gay) and everyone is shaking their goods to Britney’s brand of accusatory heartache. “Womanizer” is a lot more grind-worthy, but no less of a raw display of conflicted emotion.

Although its sense of humor is twisted, fortunately, my iPod has a modicum of compassion, configuring to serve up a remedy to the heavy, yet highly danceable medley of misery with a live version of Motley Crue’s “Girls, Girls, Girls.”

Upon closer examination, I’ve discerned that the live, Carnival of Sins version of the Crue’s geography-hopping ode to strippers everywhere is the perfect hangover recovery song. Live recordings give you all the loud you need without the pungent crispness of sound that cuts through your synapses when you’re recovering from a bender. Mick Mars’ guitar and Vince Neil’s vocals are still blisteringly brash, but mercifully muted enough to wake you up out of your hangover coma as painlessly as possible. And there’s something truly comforting about the live version with perennial teenager (and the celebrity figure I most look to for inner-spiritual guidance) Tommy Lee addressing the hot chicks in the front row. I don’t know why I find that comforting… I just do.

Ending this random playlist experiment on a bizarrely uplifting note (Who knew motorcycles and strippers could be so good for the soul!?), I wound my heaphones around my iPod, vowing I would have to do this again sometime soon. Hell, everyone should try doing this just to see what thoughts creep into your head along with some good tunes.

After seeing the exorbitant amount of taxpayer-funded bailout cash that has been abused by AIG, it’s unbelievable just how ballsy these financial institutions can be with their bullying tactics towards average citizens.

As if it wasn’t bad enough seeing that FreeCreditReport.com douche rag and his loser friends on TV every 10 minutes complaining about why their lives suck because they never cared to check their credit scores, now you can look forward to an onslaught of harassing phone calls from your credit card company.

You know the drill. They call every hour on the hour during weekends and sometimes at your place of work. Sometimes they attempt to disguise who they are by trying to sound like they’re your friend (provided they can actually pronounce your name correctly) or by blocking the number they’re calling from. Thanks to the miracle of Caller ID, the 1-800 numbers these tyrants favor is a dead giveaway not to answer the phone.

A little over a month ago, I realized just how out of hand this credit card crap had become. A few months back, my father, a retired part-timer at Sam’s Club who lives off of his Social Security check, needed significant repairs made to his car. Busting out the emergency credit card, I offered to help him pay for the trip to the mechanic. Less than a month later, I found that my credit card limit had been slashed in half — to less than $100 above the current balance I was now carrying.

As it turns out, I was one of the first people I knew to find themselves on the end of this newfound tactic employed by credit card companies to justify additional over-the-limit fees and higher APRs.

After trying to pay down this balance which, in spite of throwing more than double the minimum payment at it within reason that my paycheck would allow, it wasn’t even making a dent. Although I had been making payments on time and curtailing spending on the card, I still found myself carrying a much heftier balance than I should have. That’s when I decided to go into credit counseling and have them negotiate this debt.

While I could have just said, “screw this” and defaulted completely on my cards, I’m attempting to do the (semi) responsible thing and pay them off, going through a third party that has established enough clout to rescind any jacked-up APRs and additional fees.

Although a lot of credit card company’s methods of operation could be considered “legal loan sharking,” the credit card company in question that had slashed my balance was Barclays. Just today, it was revealed that a large chunk of AIG’s bailout cash was forked over to Barclays and other foreign banks to settle their own bad debts.

Having experienced first-hand some of Barclays’ more unsavory tactics, I experienced another one with a barrage of phone calls from their rather relentless representatives.

A Barclays representative phoned me today at work, inquiring about my late payment. I informed him that my payments from here on out would be handled by a credit counseling service and gave him the phone number and my client number.

He then remarked that this was the first time I had been delinquent with a payment and inquired as to why. My response was: “I’d much prefer to eat and pay my rent than hand money to you guys. Furthermore, if this is the first time I had been late with my payment, why the hell are you calling so much?”

Unfazed, the Barclays rep asked if I would like to pay my minimum payment now using my bank account via phone.

“No,” I replied. “You will be receiving payments from the credit counseling organization I am enrolled with. If you have any questions, you can call them.”

After informing me that he had not yet received a proposal from them, he said rather snippily, “I suggest you tell them to get us that proposal soon.”

Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t respond kindly to threats by faceless douche buckets who enjoy playing tough guy over the phone. Very calmly, I spoke to our friend at Barclays and said, “Well, I suggest that maybe you should give AIG a call to go get some of that money they fielded over to Barclays.”

I heard the representative laugh nervously on the other end of the phone. “I am unaware of anything regarding that.”

“Really?” I said. “Then maybe you should go pick up a newspaper. From what I read, AIG is kicking over a nice wad of change to Barclays. You’ll probably have an easier time getting some cash from them than you ever will directly from me. Goodbye.” I hung up.

You know, I think I’m beginning to like this! I thrive on a good verbal confrontation and I think this new economic frontier is affording me a plethora of opportunities to engage in such!

Just to share the wealth for any one else plagued by pesky phone calls from creditors, here are a few strategies for dealing with the inevitable calls you will likely get in the near future. Feel free to make up your own or add your own touch to these tried n’ true favorites:

1. Rent Exorcist III or any movie where George C. Scott gets really angry. Study his vocal techniques. Employ these vocalizations on the phone when you loudly bellow into the phone at your creditors: “One more time and it’s HARASSMENT!”

2. If your creditors call you at home after 5PM, politely ask them if they are calling in regards to a business matter. When they respond “yes,” reply with: “Then if is a business call, call back during business hours” before hanging up.

3. Breathe heavily into the phone and ask them what they’re wearing.

4. Repeat everything that they say to you, preferably in a high-pitched, mocking tone.

5. Have your stereo handy and pump Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” into the receiver.

Yes, many of these tactics are immature and juvenile. However, it’s no different than the level of immaturity that AIG displayed when they used Round 1 of their bailout handout to treat execs to a much-needed spa trip. And it certainly isn’t as immature as AIG flipping the American taxpayer the bird again with their “contractually obligated” $165 million worth of bonuses handed out to execs. They just couldn’t possibly get out of the contracts that awarded mega-huge bonuses to the top brass who foisted this financial boner upon the country.

Yet, it was perfectly okay for companies across America to lay off 8% of the workforce nationwide whose yearly salaries only amount to a fraction of what these AIG executives were handed. The working class, however, will just “have to tighten their belts.”

At this point, with record numbers of unemployment, a lot of people don’t even have belts to tighten. Platitudes like the aforementioned sound even more weak when they’re uttered by some of the roundabout recipients of bailout money. It’s even harder to stomach when you find yourself “tightening your belt” while $165 million in taxpayer funded bonus money is awarded out to executives who landed us all in this pickle.

Like any spoiled brat whose asinine behavior sometimes ruins things for the entire class, AIG and their ilk’s immaturity not only flies in the face of everything Americans are now expected to do, but their actions threaten to undermine the whole of President Obama’s economic recovery plan. With taxpayers turned off by the shenanigans of AIG and irresponsible institutions like them, it would make things more difficult for the President to ask Congress to approve spending diverted to other avenues besides the financial sector (i.e. creating jobs, alternative energy, the housing crisis, etc.).

If Bernie Madoff can be thrown in the slam for swindling the wealthy out of their money, how come AIG hasn’t been taken to task for swindling the working class by assisting in decimating their 401k and other finances that they were entrusted with? Does that say something about our culture that justice is only meted out when it’s the rich are on the receiving end of a raw deal and the poor and/or working class just have to “suck it up”?

I’ll admit that by buying into the credit card culture, I share blame with a lot of other Americans for contributing to the current financial landscape of this country. While I’ve mastered the art of self-rationalization, nearly every person I speak to who has over $5,000 in credit card debt tells the same story as to why and how they landed there.

Even before this recession, many employers did not give their employees raises — not even the paltry 2 to 3% “cost of living” raise to keep up with inflation. By that token, take-home pay ends up being even less when you factor in soaring healthcare plan costs that go up every year as coverage diminishes. Add to that the recent wave of lay-offs across the country. Now formerly two-income homes are now down to one-income plus whatever can be scraped together from a severance package or unemployment. In turn, a lot of people finding themselves with a reduced income and inflated costs on food, gas, and other amenities resorted to using their credit cards to offset what their income couldn’t pay for.

While cardholders do share a portion of the responsibility for unwieldy debt and the banking crisis, the credit card companies (and banks that back them) were only too willing to capitalize upon corporate America’s failure to provide workers with a livable wage. In many cases, debt accrued wasn’t through purchasing frivolous things like Coach bags or magic beans. Everyday comforts and necessities went on these cards.

I’m proposing (at least for myself) switching over to a cash-only system of operation. Thankfully, without having to kick over virtually an entire paycheck to pay off credit card bills that continue to climb regardless of how much spending is reigned in and timely payments are thrown at it, that means I can have more cash to save for a rainy day.

Sometimes, the old ways are the best ways.

With that said, a small ray of hope has been set forth by the Obama administration and Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke that this recession-bordering-on-depression just may lift before the end of 2009. There is an end in sight.

However, many of the banks and credit card companies are using this element of fear to try to bully many Americans by threatening that beat-all, end-all raison d’etre, their credit score!

Credit score, schmedit score! With scores being so adversely affected by the new trend of arbitrarily slashing available balances on cards, even those with previously pristine credit may be adversely affected. FICO, one of the Big Three of the credit score companies, relies upon your available credit balance to determine your credit score through their bureau. With balances being heavily reduced for many cardholders, their scores are taking an unfair beating.

After this global (it ain’t just national, honey!) financial crisis is resolved, the current credit scoring system just may be rendered obsolete. Suffice to say, I’m certainly not on pins and needles thinking about my (gasp!) credit score. And chances are, you shouldn’t be, either. If the banks can get a clean slate, it’s only fair that everyone else should get one, too.

You think a recession can stop me from gettin’ my drink on?  Oh, hell no!  If the constant flow of doom and gloom on the news and worries about the ol’ day job going down the crapper, it’s all the more reason to suck down some sauce.  Responsibly, of course.  (Which is a nice way of saying “I take public transportation anyway because I be po’.”) 

That’s right!  The Booze Review — Home of the Three Drink Minimum — is back like Jordan with the scoop on the Where, What, and Why(nehouse) to drink!  This time around, the Booze Review makes a pit stop into the Devil’s Alley at 1907 Chestnut Ave. in Philadelphia, PA. 

The weather was uncharacteristically balmy on this early March Monday.  Having a half-day at work, what better way to celebrate than to throw back a minimum of three drinks (Okay, okay… And some food.) before 2 in the afternoon? 

So where’s a gal to go?

This week marks Philly Beer Week – a weeklong attempt to instill some sort of fine-dining culture in “The City Dat Whiz Built” by pairing fine and unusual brews from around the world with uniquely crafted, upscale pub fare.  While at first thought, it may seem like a “recession” (Don’t say the “d-word”)-era attempt to make fine dining more cost-accessible and less intimidating by matching up main courses with the proper (and usually pricey) wine.  Upon further examination, Philly Beer Week is the perfect opportunity to show that damn good food can be complimented by something other than a carafe of Chardonay. 

While a lot of local restaurants participating in Philly Beer Week are offering some terrific specials, that’s not to say that some of the prices of frosty mugs of Belgian brewskis aren’t comparable to those of the wine list at Chateau Expensive.

Fortunately for me, I’m not a beer drinker.  I’ll grace my oh-so-refined palate with the occassional flavored porter with either some clam chowder or pizza, but for the most part, I prefer the hard stuff.  Still, I’m not one to pass up a good bargain on some good food and perused the ranks of participating vendors on the Philly Beer Week website.  Fortunately, many of them offer some top-notch martinis in addition to the premium beers on tap for this weeklong celebration of suds.

Perusing some of the menus of some of these restaurants online, I decided to hit up the Devil’s Alley Bar and Grill. If you’re gonna drink the devil’s brew, you may as well do it right and go to a place named after Ol’ Scratch himself.  On the Devil’s Alley website, I noticed a kick-ass looking array of alcholic beverages and some tasty-sounding grub.  I immediately began sharpening my teeth for the Bleu Cheese and Bacon Burger.  They also had a fine assortment of side dishes including my absolute favorite: Whipped Sweet Potatoes.  Awwww, yeah!  I was sold!

I made my way down to 1907 Chestnut Ave. and stepped into the two-floor Devil’s Alley.  Informal and slightly hipster-ish in its atmosphere with a young, friendly  waitstaff clad in all black, Devil’s Alley is simply, but nicely decorated.  Large plants offset the black and brushed-metal tables for a rugged-yet-swanky vibe.  The first floor was slightly more informal with the second floor being home to the bar. 

Three guesses which floor I was headed to.

I sat down at a table on the second floor and my food and drink order was almost immediately taken by the bartender.  After seeing the specials and hearing about the limited time offer of a Catfish Sandwich with remoulade, I abandoned the original plan of the 1/2 lb. Bleu Cheese and Bacon Burger that I had been salivating over.  I did, however, snap up a side of Whipped Sweet Potatoes as planned. 

Right out of the gate, I wanted a drink.  It was early in the day and I wanted something to compliment the bagel I had for breakfast a couple hours before.  The Blood Orange Martini it was!  A mix of X-Rated Fusion liqueur, Stoli Orange, and a fresh orange for garnish, this was a nice starter drink.  Not much bite, but a lot of flavor.  It was like drinking a very smooth, very fresh orange juice with a hint of alcohol.  The alcohol flavor isn’t terribly obvious.  Then again, this drink won’t get you lit.  Maybe a slight buzz, but nothing major. This is a good one to get you warmed up for some more potent stuff as your mini-binge progresses. 
Rating: Blood Orange Martini gets 3.5 out of 5 stew bums

I wasn’t even finished with my Blood Orange Martini when lunch was brought out.  The Catfish Sandwich was served with a side order of French fries and a small cup of what I assume was some sort of Cajun Cole Slaw. 

I was slightly disappointed with the Catfish Sandwich.  It was somewhat greasy, breaded, and deep fried.  I would wager that my original choice of the Bleu Cheese and Bacon Burger probably would have been the healthier option.   

Once I pried off a lot of the greasy breading, the sandwich tasted much better.  The bun itself was a nice, glazed multigrain and the lettuce and tomato were a nice touch.  The pieces of catfish were huge, too. 

Beyond the grease factor, the sandwich was fairly dry.  The remoulade sauce was almost non-existant.  While I wasn’t expecting huge glops of sauce, they could have put a little more on there than the small swoop at the top of the bun.  I imagine a bit more remoulade would have given the sandwich more flavor.  It was alright, but I really regretted opting for the Catfish Sandwich instead of the burger.  (Side note: The Catfish nuggets at chain restaurant Famous Dave’s  are much better, tastier, and a lot less greasy… and you get a massive helping of dipping sauces.)

I ended up putting some of the Cajun Cole Slaw on the Catfish Sandwich which helped it a bit. Actually, the Cajun Slaw was excellent and I would have loved a larger portion of that. The fries themselves were good, but I only had a few to avoid a major carb-loading session since I had ordered a side of the Whipped Sweet Potatoes. 

While the Catfish Sandwich was somewhat disappointing, Devil’s Alley’s Whipped Sweet Potatoes are among some of THE best I have ever tasted.  I would go back to this place just for a double helping of these bad boys.  For a side dish, the Whipped Sweets came in a generous portion. 

The bowl was piled high with fluffy orange goodness and then topped with roasted miniature marshmallows.  Rich and creamy while still tasting the “good-for-you” benefits of sweet potatoes (Oh, hi! Beta-carotene!), there was a very carefully blended taste of brown sugar flavoring them with a dash of cinnamon.  The marshmallow topping heaped upon them added something extra. 

In a word: WOW.  I made like Chris Brown and put those bitches down. The Whipped Sweet Potatoes MORE than made up for the lackluster Catfish Sandwich.  I will definitely be coming back for a side (or two) of those.

Now with the food out of the way, that brings me to the other alcoholic beverages on the menu!

I had been eyeing up the Pumpkin Expresso Martini as it contains a mixture of some of my favorite flavors: Van Gogh Expresso Vodka, Bailey’s, and pumpkin syrup.  Make no bones about it, this is a very heavy martini.  It’s not anywhere as thick as chugging an Irish Car Bomb, but for a vodka-based martini, it’s thick. And delicious.  The flavors are perfectly blended so as not one overpowers the other.  There are notes of coffee, a definite (but not overwhelming) taste of pumpkin, and the Bailey’s brings it all together.  A light bit of cinnamon is sprinkled on top and gives it the perfect finishing touch.  Actually, this drink complimented the Whipped Sweet Potatoes nicely. 

The best part about the Pumpkin Expresso Martini? This one will get you lit! Like the Blood Orange Martini, it goes down smooth, but it packs much more of a wallop. 
Rating: Pumpkin Expresso Martini 4.75 out of 5 stew bums

At that point, I was feelin’ pretty good, but wanted something for the road.  While the Pumpkin Expresso Martini was insanely awesome, I wanted something to cleanse the palate.  I asked the bartender for a recommendation and he suggested the Diabolique. The Diabolique is a mix of Vanilla vodka, pineapple juice, and Chambord.

Oh, honey… You had me at “Chambord.” 

On a side note, this place loves them some Chambord… And so do I!  A lot of the drinks on Devil’s Alley’s menu (including the Raspberry Mint Mojito that I wish I had tried, too!) include France’s favorite ruby liqueur. 

The final result of the Diabolique was a very tasty drink.  It reminded me of a vodka-based version of a Bay Breeze, minus the coconut flavor brought to you in part by Malibu rum.  Considering the Bay Breeze ranks right up there with a (properly made) Whiskey Sour as one of my all-time favorite drinks, the Diabolique was great: Not too sweet but just with enough tangy flavor with the pineapple juice. 

Again, the flavors were blended perfectly. Not one flavor was overpowering, but rather melded into one martini glass full of deliciousness. It wasn’t as complex or as strong a beverage as the Pumpkin Expresso Martini, but still much better than your average concoction.  The Diabolique was definitely the right note to end the mini-binge on.
Rating: Diabolique gets 4.5 out of 5 stew bums

Overall, I would highly recommend the Devil’s Alley on both food and booze ratings.  Especially the booze.  Even the lowest-rated drink that I tried at Devil’s Alley was better than some of the best I’ve had at other places. 

The average martini on the menu will run you roughly $8 or $9 per drink.  Their martinis are highly original in composition, very well blended and feature top shelf liquor. While $8 or $9 is a little steep if you’re boozin’ on a budget, it’s no more expensive than what other Philadelphia bars in Center City charge.  Plus, Devil’s Alley does have a Happy Hour and some weeknight specials.

If you’re going to go, pick up a side of Whipped Sweet Potatoes and try either the Pumpkin Expresso Martini (if you’re in the mood for a sweet, slightly heavy drink) or the Diabolique for a tangy-yet-sweet glass of hooch that’ll give ya a nice buzz.

Devil’s Alley Bar and Grill
1907 Chestnut Street
Philadelphia, PA  19103
http://www.devilsalleybarandgrill.com

For years, there had been talk about translating Alan Moore’s classic 1986 graphic novel to the big screen, much to the chagrin of the eccentric author himself. To be fair, Moore has never been a fan of seeing his work on the big screen, raising a stink the size of a sewage plant for each film made from his stories regardless of how good or bad the end result. Moore was full of equal ire for both the excellent Wachowski Bros.’ imagining of V For Vendetta and the suck-fest that was League of Extraordinary Gentlemen — a film so craptastic that not even Sean Connery’s presence could redeem it.

Watchmen, however, holds a special place in the heart of comic book fanboys (and girls). The 1986 graphic novel attained legendary status for its story of a disbanded team of superheroes bonded together once more when someone sets about murdering or discrediting the surviving members. Set in an alternate universe in which Richard Nixon is a multi-term president well into the 1980s, matters are further complicated as the United States teeters on the brink of nuclear war with the Soviet Union.

Zak Snyder, who previously directed the screen version of yet another graphic novel, 300, was the lucky cat to inherit the task of capturing Watchmen for celluloid posterity. In terms of subject matter, Watchmen is darker fare than usual for a comic book adaptation. Many of its images and themes (including rape, child abuse, and a prison inmate getting hot cooking oil to the face) are unsettling and presented in graphic detail. In fact, the first five minutes of the film includes a brutal fight scene that sets the film’s mystery in motion.

In an aesthetic sense, Snyder’s signature stamps are all over this one. Cinematically speaking, 300 looked like a beautiful painting. A beautiful, bloody, grisly painting – but a beautiful one nonetheless. Snyder employs an equally striking visual aesthetic to Watchmen as well. There’s almost an incandescent glow to the entire production.

Employing yet another staple of Snyder’s cinematography, the story-setting opening montage is shot with a minimalistic motion that could almost be perceived as barely-moving still shots. By contrast, the film’s action sequences weave between slow-mo and lightning quick, utilizing close up and full-body action shots.

Visually, Watchmen is striking. It has to be, clocking in with a nearly three-hour run time. Justifiably, Alan Moore’s story requires a stretch of time to flesh out as much of the book’s complex tale and characterization to the screen as possible.

While the action (for the most part) moves swiftly, there are scenes that are tedious and really don’t lend a lot to the film. Most of the tedium involves some rather prolonged sex scenes that give the flick a sort of superhero soft-core type of feel. Factor in several gratuitous ass-shots and the atomic Dr. Manhattan’s big, blue, flaccid penis appearing on screen once every ten minutes and that superhuman Skinemax vibe gets even stronger.

All griping aside in terms of the film’s pacing, Watchmen is a solid comic book adaptation. Great attention to detail is paid to the costuming and even musical direction to set the tone for the film. Taking a page (quite literally) from the <i>Watchmen</i> graphic novel, the film is bookended with Bob Dylan songs: “The Times They Are A-Changin’” serves as the backdrop for the opening credits montage and My Chemical Romance’s cover of “Desolation Row” (quoted heavily in the <i>Watchmen</i> text) is featured at the end.  I’m tacking on additional bonus points for including Nena’s German version of “99 Luft Balloons” – perhaps the most cheerful song ever written about nuclear holocaust – in the flick. Watchmen gets big ups, too, for its subtle inclusion of Tears For Fears’ “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” in a boardroom scene involving superhero/tycoon Adrian Veidt outlining his plans to visiting politicians.

With the film’s script, visuals, and sound bases covered, that leaves its final major component: the acting. While there are no thoroughly wooden portrayals in the film (Billy Crudrup’s Dr. Manhattan effectively emotes without emotion, as his character calls for), there are a handful of strong performances in the film.

Jeffrey Dean Morgan turns in a standout performance as Watchmen’s most fascinating character, The Comedian. A multi-layered anti-hero, his story is told through a series of flashbacks. As a character, The Comedian’s actions are morally reprehensible: He has a way with women that would make Chris Brown and Ike Turner look downright romantic and hair-trigger willingness to take the most violent action possible in a situation. Morgan’s outstanding portrayal elevates The Comedian from being a one-dimensional ruffian to a sympathetic character who can almost wordlessly express regret and reasoning for his actions.

Equally good is Oscar-nominee Jackie Earle Haley as the enigmatic Rorschach. Haley’s performance relies mostly upon voice as his character wears a full facemask throughout much of the film.

The rest of Watchmen’s main cast (Malin Ackerman as Laurie Juspeczek/Silk Spectre, Patrick Wilson as Nite Owl, and Matthew Goode as Ozymandias)’s performances range from good to adequate, with perhaps the exception of Carla Gugino as Sally Jupiter, the first Silk Spectre. Her portrayal takes the character from a young, plucky superheroine sex symbol to an aged, alcoholic plagued by regrets in her retirement.

If you’re not a fan of the graphic novel or the genre in general, Watchmen may not appeal to you. Although Alan Moore claimed that the film adaptation dumbed down and “spoon fed” its audience, Snyder’s envisioning of Watchmen actually seemed almost overly intellectual. The film’s resolution requires viewers to pay attention throughout its two hours and 45 minutes to achieve full impact.

Giving credit to the cantankerous Moore, however, his work translates well to the screen. Rather bleak in its assessment that humanity is its greatest threat to itself, that sometimes the least human of persons can best understand just what makes our own Doomsday Clocks tick. Even 20 years later, Watchmen relevantly addresses fears and emotions that plague us all – superhuman or not.