Review for “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”

For those who either know me or have read me before know I am NOT a big fan of remakes whether they are remade from foreign movies or domestic, and I an NOT on the reboot bandwagon either. However, with that said, David Fincher’s version of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” is quite frankly one the best I have seen and is definitely my pick for the best of 2011.

As the movie opens we find that Mikael Blomkvist(Daniel Craig), publisher of the Swedish political magazine Millennium, has lost a libel case involving allegations about billionaire industrialist Hans-Erik Wennerström (Ulf Friberg), and he is ordered to pay hefty damages and costs that clean out his bank account of savings and has put his magazine in financial straights as well. Blomkvist is then is hired by Henrik Vanger (Christopher Plummer), the retired CEO of the Vanger Corporation, to discover what happen to his niece Harriet some forty years earlier and is convinced that one of the family had murdered her and for what ever the reason is trying to drive him (Henrik) insane by sending him pictures of flowers on his birthday. The same gift that Harriet had always gave him. And with the way the Vanger family are towards one and another it could be anyone’s best guess on which family member it is.

An apprehensive Blomkvist then moves to the Vanger estate and under the guise of researching into the history of the Vanger family to write the memoirs of Henrik he begins to look into Harriet's disappearance. As the history unfolds, Blomkvist finds himself surround by former Nazis, anti-Semites, and sadists, one of which holds a secret so devastating that it could destroy the family and shake Sweden to it’s core.

Fincher’s version is much more fluid than the original and the only thing that really threw me was the Bondesque opening sequence -while very cool visually- didn’t really fit with the movie overall, especially since I was already trying to disentangle Craig from his Bond persona. (I know he supposedly put on weight for the role, but he still looks like 007 to me). The relationship between Blomkvist and Lisbeth -played by Rooney Mara- has more chemistry than the original between Noomi Rapace and Michael Nyqvist.

With that said, Rooney Mara’s portrayal Lisbeth Salander, the tattooed, anti-social computer hacker and researcher is spot on. It is almost hard to believe that this is the same girl from the remake of “Nightmare on Elm Street”, and thankfully Fincher didn’t flinch when it came to more graphic scenes where Lisbeth is savagely raped. I found that scene in particular more disturbing than the original.

While the overall story remains the same (people kept telling me I either had to read the book or see the Swedish film to able to follow) Fincher’s version is, while not easy because of the layers, close to as the Swedish film as one can get. But there are little moments that really do define Fincher’s film that of Niels Arden Oplev’s. And one does not have to know the story to know what is going on.

The one main thing I found lacking in Fincher’s from Oplev’s is that of the set up with family. Oplev really made it seem that anyone could be the main villain in a family that is plagued by villains. Where as you now almost get a sense of who is behind it all. Also Fincher’s use of adding Blomkvist’s ex-wife and daughter into the mix. They really weren’t needed with the exception of one component of the film with the daughter which Oplev did slightly different.

My rating for this one is 5 out of 5. A definite must see.

Is America Souring on Remakes?

As the much hyped and well reviewed movie “Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” fails to live up to expectations (as did the Hollywood remake of another Swedish blockbuster “Let Me In“), people have been wondering how and why this movie somehow came in fourth place at the box office when the book sold over thirty million copies and the Swedish version of the film was box office gold in Europe. So we have to ask if America is starting to sour on remakes from across the pond.

I think the answer is simple enough. I think (or hope) that we finally are.

While I think mostly when it comes to “Dragon Tattoo” is that Sony, the studio behind the film, chose Christmas weekend to release it when this time of the year people are mostly looking for escapist films to loose themselves in and get away from the insanity that comes along with the holiday than the subject matter that “Dragon Tattoo” (rape and incest, along with murder) contains. However, other star-driven follow-ups to foreign-language hits have been flops as well.

When the trend first took hold of American audiences (mostly during the nineties) with Asian horror films and Action dramas, we as audience were looking for something fresh is a very stagnant market. I know that I, for one, were sick of the countless squeals to movie franchises like “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “Friday the 13^th”, where the ideas were just getting plain stupid and dull. So when movies like the “Ring” and “Ju-On” hit the theaters I was excited, especially since I was already starting to watch the original Asia movies as it was. Now, however, it seems that just about everything these days are either foreign remakes or reboots of films that have already run past their prime -not to mention all the things being re-released in 3D. And it doesn’t just happen to be in the realm of the movie houses.

Television has been stealing ideas for some time now. Channels like SyFy and Showtime (just to name two, but they all seem to be doing it) are big in the foreign remake game with “original” shows like “Being Human” and “Shameless”. Both shows have had long runs (especially “Shameless” that has been on the air for eight seasons) on BBC. Even the much hyped and now cancelled Mtv “original” show “Skins” had a long run their as well.

Hopefully enough is enough when it comes to the remake game, but unfortunately I doubt it. Hollywood seems to be tanking more and more, wondering why they still seem to loose money. But I can not cry to the fact that they are since Hollywood continually raises the price to go to the movies and continue to turn out crappy film after crappy film. I had the unfortunate chance at seeing a few trailers to things on the horizon for 2012, and the movie landscape doesn’t look pretty.

My suggestion to though that be in power in Tinsel Town. Lets try something out of the box, try to recapture that magic that was going to the movies and stop remaking everything you can because there was once an audience for those films back in the day. There are plenty of “Indie” filmmakers out there turning out things that would be of a far better quality if they had some sort of budget, or maybe if you are keen on just using your crappy stock of writers that seem to be at your call try sending them to a bookstore and find something. Hell, it worked for you with “Harry Potter”.

But hey what do I know? I’m just your target audience.

“Form Follows Function” and Raymond Loewy: The Pope of American Industrial Design vs. The Designers of Today

What do you find today that differs from Raymond Loewy’s MAYA (Most Advanced Yet Acceptable) principle?

One can hardly open a beer or a soft drink, to fix breakfast, to board a plane, buy gas, mail a letter or shop for an appliance without encountering a Loewy creation. Raymond Loewy believed that: “The adult public’s taste is not necessarily ready to accept the logical solutions to their requirements if the solution implies too vast a departure from what they have been conditioned into accepting as the norm.” So by finding and understanding the consumer’s sweet spot, Loewy ultimately claimed his place in history as the Father of Industrial Design.

Raymond Loewy spent over 50 years streamlining everything from postage stamps to spacecrafts, with a concept that he is credited with originating: MAYA or “Most Advanced Yet Acceptable” principle. Meaning that planned obsolescence is defined as that the designer needs to create a desire to own something a little newer, a little better, a little sooner as necessary. (a concept that Steve Jobs and Bill Gates have made their, not only carriers on, but a fortune as well) But Loewy thought that the adult public's taste is not necessarily ready to accept the logical solutions to their requirements if the solution implies too vast a departure from what they have been conditioned into accepting as the norm. So a good “Trendmaster” has to know how to find the sweet spot on the trend curve…the place where new is exciting and attractive, yet understandable and acceptable. That’s where profits come from.

But what I see today over the what was the Loewy plan is that it seems like more and more designers are becoming more and more influenced by style, falling into the 1980s “Designer Clothes” syndrome of fashion over function. Meaning that designers today never think about their design and get to carried away over their fashion vision and think design is style when the opposite is the reality. Design is not style, about giving us just a shape and not the guts or the tools to use such items as Loewy had given us. Function is out and form is in seems to be the mantra of today’s designers. More design, more production, equal more sales is the philosophy of what to create over why we should and what are the uses for it. Never before in Industrial Design have designers seriously sat around the table thinking of what can go on the latest the toothbrush, or the shoe horn; drawing up elaborate plans to solely make and sell products just because they look good. Before the logic was use, then “how can I make this product more appealing to the eye”.

So, what is the point of good design? To create good experiences. Good design makes the objects, places, and interfaces we use every day pleasurable to interact with. It allows people to do the things they want or need to do, in ways that are (at least) painless, and (at best) delightful. Also good design does something else: it raises the bar for what people expect from their experiences, advancing the public high-water mark for “best user experience.” As the creator of a web or mobile application, yanking that bar upwards is the goal. It’s hard to find a better example of MAYA in action than Apple. One only has to look at the evolution of the iPod to see the interplay between “Advanced” and “Acceptable” ratcheting upward over time.

Some early iPod features were, in part, concessions to what was then familiar -such as buttons that were distinct from the scroll wheel. The first generation iPod was a groundbreaking product in its own right; as time broadened both cultural acceptance and technological possibilities, Apple’s iPod designers were able to push their product design farther and farther, losing the extra buttons and streamlining the interface. Taken to one extreme, the designers of the iPod Shuffle eventually eliminated the playback controls from the it entirely, placing them on the headphone cord instead. (In the next generation, the Shuffle’s designers reversed this decision—a sign that design innovations which force customers to use your proprietary headphones are unlikely to become Acceptable.) Now, in the time of the iPhone with a full touch screen, early iPods look quaint, almost archaic. But in 2001, the iPhone would likely have been too far outside the bounds of the familiar to make any sense to consumers. Only because of the progression of MAYA do we take for granted its sleek look and feel today.

　

Raymond Loewy’s MAYA is inseparable from the aesthetic he popularized: streamlined forms that evoke speed and modernity. In Loewy’s time, these were fresh innovations:L

1)Push the boundaries of design and technology beyond your users’ expectations, but keep enough familiar patterns to let them orient themselves.

2)Gradually advance your design over time, as technology and public sentiment evolve to support this advance.

3) Make it sexy where reasoned arguments fail, eye candy often succeeds. This applies both to the visual aesthetic, and the technology underneath it.

But, overall, make it functional first.

'Tis The Season

It’s starting to look a lot like Christmas.

No. Not because there is snow on the ground. As of right now there isn’t any -at least by me. No, what I’m talking about is the zombiefied asshole shoppers that seem to gravitate to where ever people are congregating, pawing at wares for sale as if they were fresh meat, fighting over the last morsel of whatever it is they think they want that is still on the shelf as if it were a chicken wing; those lovely festive holiday gatherings with family or friends or coworkers that always seem to end in one of two ways: drunken idiots that end up in fights, or drunken idiots that end up in some kind of compromised situation that they rather forget.

Myself I’m always up for the latter than the former. But I digress.

I was never one for the holiday season that seems to grow longer and longer with each year. Who thought it was a good idea -or okay even- to start putting up Christmas decorations when Halloween costumes are still on the shelves.

Christmas has never been my thing. I was never one to get excited about going over to where it was that we had to go. When I was a kid Christmas Eve was at my stepfather’s parents' house. That or his brother’s. It depended on who did Thanksgiving that year. Remember how I said that gatherings usually ended in one of two ways. That’s right. More times than not those drunken idiot fests usually ended in some kind of argument. Something that almost always carried over into the car for the ride home, and something I always had to listen too while I tried to pretend I was asleep. Those lovely times always made the next day (Christmas) awkward to say the least. My mother and her husband would still be pissed about whatever, so she would take my brother and I to her parents (my grandparents) for the day leaving him behind. The only real time that my stepfather had actually been at his wife’s parents' house for the holiday was when we lived with them. Then he had no choice BUT to be there. (I pretty much grew up at my grandparents (my mother’s parents). My parents were divorced so before she married I either lived with them or -since my mother worked- was where I went after school.) One of the best Christmases I can remember was when my father out of the blue stopped by unannounced in the morning before anyone was really up (except for my grandfather who always got up early and as you can probably tell my father wasn‘t much in the picture after the divorce) and brought me a TV. It was nothing special. Just a little twelve inch black and white. But it was mine and it brought me the freedom to watch whatever I wanted too when I wanted.

As I grew older the less I went to my mother’s in-laws. Opting (with an argument anyway) to either stay home alone or end up with my grandparents. But that soon came to an end as I started dating girls a tad more seriously. Then I found myself at the girlfriend’s house to celebrate with them. Something that I never pictured myself having to do, and was never much into. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them -whatever girl's family it was. It was more that I always thought myself  to be somewhere else. Bar. Beach. Anywhere but were I was ending up. And sometimes that was exactly where I ended up. Usually at some bar. Was it better? I don’t know. Maybe.

But when I got married and had kids that all changed. The Eve was always spent with MY in-laws and their family (which wasn’t bad. They are a fun bunch) and the Day of at my grandparents with my family. These gatherings were and are far less problematic, unlike the days when I was a kid and spending that time with stepfamily. But it never seemed to fail that if we had a goodtime at one place that the other would always suck and be boring.

And now, as my kids are older and we have our own system of doing things for the holidays, I find that old forces and habits want to intercede and try to take over. Like the plans we have should be changed because certain people want to do something for whatever the day (Eve or Day), inviting themselves and the rest of the fam over. And it’s always the same argument: We'll bring things and help. But that’s never the case. It always seems to fall on mine and my wife’s shoulders of cleaning and cooking and shopping, while the rest do the bare minimum. Never helping with the cleaning before or after, and when they bring food it’s just finger food that is never enough and gone it seems in seconds.

Ah, ’Tis The Season.

The season where I’d rather be pretty much anywhere than where the hell I am.

Can't wait for it to be over and done with. Just 371 more days until the next family fun time. Hopefully I can just send a card or phone it in.

Review for Amityville Haunting (2012)

The Amityville Haunting is another sad attempt to bring this franchise back to life.

This rendition of the famed New York haunted house where in 1974, 23-year-old Ronald DeFeo murdered his entire family and then made famous again in 1975 by the Lutz story which was turned into the original “Amityville Horror” in 1979. Now this time around, the movie is shot entirely in POV style and of the “found foot-age” genre that has been a growing trend in the realm of horror films.

The movie starts out with a group of teenagers, doing what teenagers do best with empty and somewhat abandoned homes with beds: breaking in. Three of the four know the story and reputation of the house and as the movie opens one of the boys of the group lays down the story of what has supposedly gone on in the house.

As the teens stand in the front of the entrance their camera picks a partial silhouette at the top of the stairs that goes unnoticed except for one, but by the time everyone looks it’s gone.

The camera cuts and when it comes back we find that the teens have spit up. One pair is of course in the upstairs bathroom videoing themselves having sex while the other pair is in the kitchen.

As the camera videos the couple in the bathroom the camera starts to blur and cut out (a trick that will be WAY OVER USED through-out the movie whenever the ghosts appear)only to just capture as the boy is yanked out the door, blood spraying on the wall as the girl screams. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the other couple in the kitchen of what is taking place to their friends, we cut back to the kitchen as the couple is making out. The camera shows the girl look behind her boyfriend, and as a look of shock comes across her face the cuts to black with screams.

We next open on the house as the Benson family meets the realtor in charge of the property. The son, Tyler, who is making a documentary of his family, films them going through the home. (Immediately fans of the previous films can see that this isn’t the house or even the same style of home used before. Where the original kind of sat away from the road and neighbors this one your basic, run-of-the-mill suburban home) Here we find out that the Benson family is on hard times financially and emotionally. The father, Doug, is an ex-marine sergeant and a veteran of the war in Afghanistan who has some issues with civilian life as he treats his family like they were serving in the corps. The mother is your basic doughy-eyed woman who most of the time seems to be on a valium cocktail, but she does pose reservations to moving into their new home. But the father is adamant on living there since it has the right number of bedrooms and he’s tired of moving his family place to place because (we later find out is eight times in fifteen months) because of the older daughter’s discipline problems that are, unfortunately, never truly addressed.

As the Benson tours the house with their realtor Tyler’s camera starts with that annoying cutting out because a ghostly presence that we can only really here as voices seem to float up from the vent when he is left on his own for a while.

The realtor leaves the Benson’s alone to discuss what they want to do, and goes outside. And when they family goes out to tell her that they will take the home they find her lying dead in the driveway. I don’t know about you, but I think at this point any reasonable person with a half of a brain cell would not be looking to buy the house anymore. But, needless-to-say the Benson’s do.

After they find the realtor in the drive, the camera cuts to the move in day. Tyler is once again filming the day’s proceedings as the movers take in their belongings. Tyler doing his documentary thing talks with the movers and asks them if they had ever heard of the Amityville house and that this was it. The movers have somehow have never heard of the story and laugh it off when Tyler tells them that the house is haunted. Also we find out the invisible friend is back -only this time his name is Jonathon- and he has befriended himself to the youngest daughter. (later we find out that Jonathon was a victim of the DeFeo killing spree) But as the movers finish up their day, Tyler catches on tape one them falling down the stairs and breaking his neck (again we have that annoying cutting and blurring of the camera). You would think that, again, would be reason enough not to live there, but Doug persists that it was no big deal.

The next day, Doug has found that the back door has been left open and he suspects the oldest daughter of sneaking out. After the two get into an argument, Doug seems to have a change of heart and tells the family that they should go to the movies, and that he and Tyler will stay behind and finish up the unpacking.

As the rest leave, Doug takes advantage of their absence and buys and installs a security camera in the living room that has a view of the front and back doors, and while they do we see a ghostly figure outside the window when the camera is left to operate on it’s own. Tyler also happens upon an iPhone that the kids in the beginning were using to video each other in the kitchen. And when Tyler is finally able to charge the battery and show them that something supernatural is going on the his parents can only focus on the couple and their relations. He also installs an alarm on the doors as well that goes off when the back door mysteriously opens by itself. Leading to yet another argument with the oldest daughter.

Through out the week the Benson’s stay in the house, Tyler makes little vignettes about the days events and the supernatural goings ons.

As the week continues, Doug starts to unravel mentally, his wife grow more adamant on leaving when she’s not valiumed out, and the growing dependency of the youngest daughter and her new friend. But when a chance real break-in of the local teenage stud and the oldest daughter trying to hook up with him gives Doug the excuse that what has been going on is in fact the daughter. And when he chases the boy out the door by gun point, Tyler follows him, only to catch him as he is being dragged off by an unseen force.

The police finally get involved when Doug can’t find trace of the boy after Tyler yells for him. The responding officer pretty much confirms Doug’s earlier thoughts of what is going on is real, telling him that they know all about this kid ands how he hooks up with all the girls on the block, but since he can’t find any trace of him in the dark that he’ll be back in the morning. Upon the officers arrival he discovers a large pool of blood but no body and enlists the help of a detective who lays out the larger story of the house and how nobody that has ever lived there has stayed more than two months.

At this point, Doug, not certain of anything anymore contacts a war buddy, (named) Cut, who comes over and installs more cameras through-out the house. While Cut is making sure that everything works he catches a brief glimpse of a ghost behind but when he turns around nothings there. But as Cut leaves via the backyard the power line above falls down on him, killing Cut. This begins to really drive a spike mentally into Doug as he now believes that there IS something supernatural going on and tries to find a way to combat it.

The last day begins where we finally see (via Cut’s security camera) Jonathon at the table with Tyler and his younger sister and that he wants her to stay with him forever and how she wishes she could as well. Later in the day Doug’s mental brake goes into high gear as he starts reliving moments from the service and waves around his pistol. And for what ever the reason his wife doesn’t just get up and leave with the children and instead says that they are going to her sisters in a couple of days. The night progress with a ramped supernatural problems leading most of the family to spend the night in the parents room. That is except for the oldest daughter who spends the night in hers.

As we watch her sleep via the camera her father had installed in her room we see as she awakes and then we see her get attacked by something unseen. The camera does it’s usual cut out stuff and when it comes back it shows only her legs on the bed and blood on the walls.

Somehow the rest of the family has failed to hear her screams, but after a while the mother awakes and heads down to the dinning room for no apparent reason other than to do so. But as she nears the kitchen she pulled away from the camera view. Her screams awaken Tyler who then follows her downstairs and into the kitchen. He sees nothing on his first pass through but when he goes to turn around he finds his mother on the floor dead and looks to have been burned. Something then grabs his attention off screen but as he turns around he gets grabbed himself and his camera goes dead. The youngest daughter at this point gets up out of bed, the camera cuts and then she standing next to her father who she then stabs in the heart as he is about to get up.

The camera cuts to black a final time but we are able to her the daughter talking to somebody and how she is happy with where she is going to go.

While Amityville Haunting had a decent idea (I’m also a fan of the found footage genre) it lacked quite a bit. The trailer had me sucked in but that was about it when it came to the movie which was a real let down. The parents constant assholeness and complaining and arguing was a real distraction especially when it was combined with the overly used camera flashes and cutting out which was more headache inducing as was scary. However, the old tried and true basic scares that have worked well with other films in thins genre worked here when used and in my opinion would worked far better if used more than the camera work. I would names of the people that played the characters, but IMDB has this movie not coming out until next year sometime and only listed one person in it.

I give Amityville Haunting one and half severed heads out five. Just take a pass on this one because it doesn’t really fulfill the wants of the fans of the franchise or that of the found footage genre.

Just in time for the holidays. I'm put up art work for sale for anyome that is interested.

8x10 with mat - $65
8x10 with mat and frame - $100
free shipping

just email me and the image number

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Human Centipede 2 movie review

After watching this film I have to wonder two things. First, what the hell goes through Tom Six’s brain, or should I say his subconscious, that allows him to dream of these concepts of grotesquery, and two, who the hell is giving him the money to bring these films to fruition. It’s not like the films he (Tom Six) has created, or his directorial style can be compared to those, say, the suckfest that is Uwe Bol. Far from it. At least the two films that I have seen by Six have kept my interest and his film technique is impeccable.

The film I’m referring too here is “Human Centipede 2 (The Full Sequence)”, Six’s follow up to the much hyped and overly bizarre “Human Centipede (The First Sequence)”.

“Human Centipede 2” follows a man named, Martin (played by Laurence R. Harvey), a middle aged, mentally disturbed loner, with not much to say (Martin never actually speaks in the film. His complete communication solely along the lines of pig like squeals) who lives with his mother in a bleak housing project, as he works the night shift as a security guard at a local parking garage. Martin passes the time away in his little booth watching and fantasizing about the first film and fetishizes over the meticulous surgical skills of the gifted Dr. Heiter, whose knowledge of the human gastrointestinal is unparalleled. Martin is so obsessed with the film he keeps a scrapbook about it, and at one point he masturbates with a piece of rolled up sandpaper around his penis while viewing the film for the umpteenth time.

Martin’s life in this Lynchesque world takes a further dark turn as he begins collecting his own specimens, stealing them from the very place of his employ. Hitting them, usually, in the head with his trusty crowbar, then dragging their lifeless bodies off to his weird little minivan that reminds me of a cross between -as said- minivan and an American El Camino that has a cover on the back.

Martin of course needs a place to conduct his rabid little plan, so he decides to rent a warehouse space. Upon viewing the space, Martin ends up killing the rental agent as he tries to subdue him for his experiment. He will just be the first in what will become a long line of killings by the end of the film. As Martin’s collection grows (among his victims are a neighbor, a businessman, and a man and his very pregnant wife) he becomes more and more fascinated with the fact that he could somehow get the three originals actors in the first “Human Centipede” to be the show pieces of the next sequence. So he begins telephoning the three actors from the first film, pretending to be Quentin Tarantino's casting agent, and tries to lure them to London. Only, however, one, Ashlynn Yennie (portraying herself, in yet another nod to the meta-narrative), does so. And why she decided to reprise her role from the first is beyond me. Most of the first hour of the film shows how Martin attacks, beats, and kidnaps his victims, and once Martin has his victims, he severs the tendons in each person's legs (shown graphically and on screen) to prevent them from fleeing. He then uses a hammer to knock out their teeth one by one, (again shown) putting his fingers in their blood-filled mouths to fish out their teeth so they will not swallow and choke on them in a suicide attempt. He slices open the buttocks of 11 of the victims (also graphically depicted on screen), and then lacking any surgical equipment, or knowledge for that matter, uses a staple gun and duct tape to attach each person's face to the next person's anus. Like somehow that was all it takes to recreate Dr. Heiter’s plan.

The last act has Martin, who is clad only in his underwear at this point (a sight which can only be seen) as he becomes more and more sexually aroused by the desperation and travails of HIS "human centipede." And while wanting the full effect from the first film (and obviously one of his favorite scenes from it), Martin administers an excessive amount of laxative to his creation, forcing each individual in the chain to explosively evacuate their bowels into the mouth of the person behind them. When one of his victims chokes to death on their own vomit, Martin again breaks down in tears.

It’s not like the original “Human Centipede” is a master piece of film work (far from it) but the unfortunate fact of this film is that Six decided to forgo any real plot and instead just went for over-the-top grotesque. At one point in the film the pregnant women escapes and while she is in the process of doing so is also in labor. As she runs down the hall towards the door blood shoots from between her legs and when she finally does make it to a parked car (that of the rental agent that has been left there the entire time) she gives birth, the baby falling to the floor as Martin bangs on the window trying to enter. The women is finally able to get the vehicle started and crushes her newborn’s head as she steps on the gas.

However, the film is beautifully shot in black and white (a fact I think because of all the gore so Six could get around the sensor board), with deep lush darks and shadows. And the camera work is equally well down. And for the reason alone is why I’ll give the “Human Centipede 2 (The Full Sequence)” one and a half severed heads instead of just the half the story rightly deserves.

Never Again for Forever 21

I’m all about giving things second (even third and fourth) chances, but enough is enough when it comes to FOREVER 21 in Chicago Ridge Mall (aka Westfield Shopping Center Chicago Ridge).

Here I was with the wife as she’s looking for a shirt she just saw a couple of days ago, which ironically she can’t find, so I tell her to just ask one of the MANY people that work there doing pretty much nothing (as usual). She tells me: “Why, when they can see that I’m looking through their clothes and saying how I can‘t find what I‘m looking for, can’t they ask me if I need some help like every other store we go into. I guess that they are to busy giving us dirty looks.”

At first I had I failed to notice the looks. But once pointed out it was pretty clear. Granted, I’m probably not their target audience (teenager), but I would of thought that would have been anyone willing to spend money. Guess I was wrong.

So the wife settles on another shirt she liked just the same, but if we would have found the original one we were looking for we would bought that one too. So they would have had two sales- and when we get up to the counter, the girl working (who looked right at us as we made our way there) walks away just before we arrive. And as we stand there, another girl (who I think is going to wait on us) walks over looks then calls out the others name as she walks away. Not only that, but the “manager” (which I say loosely) is just standing there herself on the phone -as in her CELL. Busily in conversation with her girlfriend talking about some dude her friend liked that hadn’t called her back. And the whole time NOBODY acknowledged our existence much less even made eye contact.

Nice.

Needless to say that after about a minute or so of being ignored my wife threw the shirt she had across the check-out desk and we walked out.

I mean, what the hell, the employees here act like their doing US a favor and letting US spend OUR money on THEIR clothes, and it‘s Chicago Ridge for Christ Sake. Suburbia hell. It’s not like they are selling PRADA.

So with that said, I think I’ll save the headache and shop and spend my cash elsewhere.

My new movie Project.

WISCONSIN DEATH TRIP

A story about three couples who are out for a weekend outing doing wine tasting right form the source: the wineries themselves. As the group enjoys their time drinking it regrettably catches up with them in the form of stupidity as the group happens along an old abandoned junk yard. And since they are strong with drink the guys decide to go exploring and against their better judgment the girls go with them.

Unfortunately they are not alone…

My review for 2011 "THE THING"

Well I went and saw it, even though I said I probably wouldn’t. I mean at first it started out as a remake then somehow became a prequel. I mean how can anyone remake that classic, which is, ironically a remake of it’s own. The move I talk of is: “The Thing”.

Set as a prequel to John Carpentar’s ’80s version, we find ourselves following the events that took place at the Norwegian Antarctic base, (or the Crazy Swedes as MacReady liked to call them) as they uncover under a hundred thousand years of ice an alien space craft. Unbeknownst to them, and fully known to those have seen the 1982 version, the jubilation that the Norwegian Scientists feel on the discovery of not only the craft itself but what appear to be the remains of an alien life form frozen in the ice, will come to a horrifying end.

A lot of this film seemed familiar, with iconic visuals from the ’82 version filling up the screen and it definitely had the feel that this version was originally intended to be a remake and not a sequel.

My biggest fear, however, on seeing this version was, other than the fact that the producers (Dawn of the Dead remake) didn’t readily attempt to get the SFX wiz, Rob Bottin; to try and coax him back to film and away from real estate, and over use the CGI. While there was an abundance of CGI use, surprisingly there was actual SFX make-up when it came to the alien. The SFX team did, thankfully, keep the LOVECRAFTIAN aesthetics that made the Thing one of a kind.

Another surprise, was that the practically unknown cast (with Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje from LOST fame be the most notable) carried off the film extremely well. I was ready to walk out of the theater hating this movie. The Carpenter version is one of my all time favorite horror films, and one that still stands the test of time when it comes to story and SFX. Will this one have the same effect thirty years removed from it’s opening? Doubtful, but the 2011’s “The Thing” is still a fun film to sit in a darken theater and see.

I give the “The Thing” 3 severed heads out 5.

Something I put together out of shear boredom.

Spare Some Change

If it isn’t bad enough that you have some asshole with a piss and water filled squirt bottle in one hand and a crinkled up dirty news paper that he probably uses to wipe his ass with in the other trying to wash your windshield or that poor dirty guy with a sign telling the world that he’s hungry at just about every on/off ramp that takes you into just about any city?

But now it almost seems if you can’t go anywhere anymore without running into another kind of beggar, a “corporate” beggar or some school or kids sports team at just about every stop light and almost every store you come out of. And with the approach of the holiday season there are going to be twice as many out there asking you to spare some change, trying to make you feel guilty that you say no.

Well I say: “Fuck You!”

I’m done with giving every fool (with the exception of the Vets) anything any more. I mean, Jesus. Who has job nowadays? And you expect me to hand out what ever change Obama and crew hasn’t stolen from my pocket yet.

Then you have the idiot media feeding into there woos with news story upon news story (especially during Christmas) on how no one’s giving anymore. We have all become selfish bastards, think of the children.

So please, just please can we have a year that I don’t have to deal with it. The answer will be no, I already know. And people are going to tell me I’m a heartless jerk. That’s fine. But I’m a heartless jerk because I’m broke. Where’s my hand out?

“So. Can you spare some change? I need to pay for my kids school and Christmas”

Gotta Love the Irony

Ah the irony of it all.

I have to laugh at what has become “The Year of the Protest”. Whether it’s the rise in the Arab world or the Anti-Wall Street protester that have seized upon the financial district; the Arabs and thier hate of almost anything Western (I’m not saying all of them or even most, they just happen to be the loudest), and the those that call themselves “Occupy Wall Street” and their hatred of corporate America, Big Business, and Billionaire CEO’s, of how the two groups have spread their word (Arabs) through via the (Western) internet and when you see the protesters along the streets of New York large portions of them have their iphones glued to their ears or are texting/tweating their agenda. I mean, really? If you hate corporate America I think the last product you want to use would be anything Apple, the corporation that happens to come out with a new version of the phone they are on every six months or so. Isn’t that feeding into the greed you are supposed to be protesting about?

And lets not forget the terrorists anti America/Western Society agenda that they spread through their Facebook/Twitter accounts.

I mean if you are so against all these things why use them. I can understand the terrorists, how they are using our technology against us, but with the “Occupy Wall Street” people I just don’t understand how they can stand there lecturing me or anyone else on the evils of corporate greed all the while having their iphone or Android or Tablet or whatever the latest tech happens to be in their pocket or bag or even sitting at home.

Not to say that I am totally against everything they stand for. I’m completely against the government propping up the banks and businesses with our tax dollars all the while we toil with high unemployment and foreclosures with nothing more than a song and dance and a pat on the back by the Administration. But I do have a problem with how this so-called “Grassroots” group can continue to support the Unions that wholeheartedly helped put us in the mess we now face with unsustainable contracts that they refuse to budge on when it comes to trying to negotiate something new. How can we continue to pay for people the kind of money they are getting in retirement. I’m not talking the 9 to 5 guy that put in his time busting their ass. No, I’m talking about the ones that didn’t and don’t that reap the same benefits.

Also I find it absurd that “Occupy Wall Street” isn’t put into the same category as another “so-called” grassroots group of the “Tea Party“. I mean when they came on to the scene that were vilified as racist -even though there are many ethnic supporters, and terrorists that have held the country “hostage”. What a fucking joke. So far I’ve seen far more Wall Street protesters arrested in the last couple of days than I have Tea Partiers ever. And I know for a fact that both the Parties have all kinds of skeletons in their closets. Not that I’m saying I like them either. Far from it. They seemed to be loud mouths like everyone else seems to be (with me included…lol).

There are no easy answers to the mess we are in. Obama has said so countless times already and will continue to do so until the next election where he and his party will blame Bush (again and again) for the problems that they have helped along for the last four years while the Republicans will blame the Democrats when they haven’t the slightest idea of how to fix as well. I just happen to find it funny from the irony of it all and of all of these groups of fools that say they know better than I do.

FANDANGO -SHORT STORY

The air conditioner tried -mostly- in vain to keep the heat of the day out, but it was only able to blow cool at best (or warm, depending if you were a glass half empty, half full kind of person) as I watched the cactus and scrub brush pass by in a blur, against the mountains that seemed to stand still behind it from the passenger window of our great rented metal beast wondering if this was where Area 51 was suppose to be, and if so how cool it would be too maybe catch a glimpse of one of the “so-called“ UFO‘s that supposedly flew from it, sweet beaded along the top of Fat Joe’s head as he sat behind the controls driving faster than the posted sign stated; faster than the law aloud, and I almost wanted to reach out and slide my hand over the top. Almost.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him, for Joe been quiet for quite awhile now and I was beginning to wonder why. After all, it was his idea to take this little drive through the countryside in the first place.

Fat Joe sat quietly, saying nothing in return, and I was about to ask again, when he finally spoke. “Nothing…well…I don’t know…No, it’s nothing.” He stammered. “It’s just…It’s just that I thought that, well, that maybe, that this -I mean Vegas- would be more like that…movie.”

Jesus Christ, getting something out of him today was like trying to get a baby to eat it’s shitty smelling veggies. “And what movie would you be babbling about? There happen to be quite a lot of movies about Vegas, so you’re going to have to be a little more specific for me to know which one you fucking mean.” I pause a second, then said, “You don’t mean that fucked up Nicholas Cage one, do you? The one where he hangs out with the hooker and drinks himself to death?”

“NO!” Fat Joe exclaimed, loudly. And he look generally shocked as he looked in my direction. I stared back cool as a cucumber, or at least pretended too with the sucky A/C and all. I was also starting to think that maybe I should of drove, and would have if I had known that Joe was in such a delicate manner.

“Joe, do you mind that if, well, that maybe…,” I pointed out the windshield as I spoke; as the great metal beast veered into the oncoming lane of traffic, but I kept my eyes on Joe the whole time “…that maybe you’d like to watch the fucking road as you drove. I mean you don’t have too, I just thought that I’d make the suggestion before we met with anyone face to face.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Shit.” Fat Joe turned his gaze back to where it belonged: The Road, the car swerved quickly back into it’s proper lane, the great metal beast rocked back and forth, I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding until I let it out. “That’s not the movie, however.”

“Well that’s good. Because I wasn’t up for that. Hookers maybe,” I laughed, “But no dying.”

“No. The movie I was referring too was ’The Hangover’.

“Oh, god! Why? That movie sucked!”

“What?! How can you not like that movie?”

“Easy. It’s called taste.”

“Taste?”

“Yes, taste. Something apparently you don’t have.

“Aw, come on. That movie was great.”

“If you say so. Listen…,” I said, rolling my eyes as I changed the subject, all ready growing tired of the conversation and the merits of that film and how everyone besides myself, for some reason, thought that movie was funny. But hell, each their own. “…where the fuck are we going? Because if we keep going the way we are, we’ll be in LA by dinner time. Unless that is where we’re going. Then I say: drive on, my good man.”

“LA? No. Why would I be driving there?”

“Fuck if I know,” I said, sarcastically. Then: “Nicholas Cage?” but the joke went over his slick, bald head.

“No. I just had to get out of Vegas for a little while.” I didn’t understand why -we’ve only been boots on the ground in Sin City for less than a full twenty four hours, and yet somehow I could. Fat Joe was already down a good thousand clams while I was up three hundred. But I didn’t tell him that. Fuck no. I was already paying far more than I thought I was going too when that fat bastard called me five days ago and told me how we were going to Vegas and I didn’t have to pay a thing except for souvenirs and shit. Where I whole heartedly said: “Not a problem. When are we leaving?” (Fat Joe had just come into a wad of cash thanks to a workman’s comp settlement over a back issue and that prospect of that money had been eating a hole in his pocket even before he knew how much he was actually getting.) But then the day before we were set to leave, good ol’ Fat Joe was nice enough to let me know that he wasn’t paying for everything, no, just the airfare and the rooms and the food. Not the gambling -which was fine by me, I could find some spare coin of my own to do that with; which then the morning of departure it was down to just airfare and room. Which unfortunately put me in a little bit of a tiff with the wife who already had a slight tiff about me dropping said trip in her lap the day before as it was. I was just glad that we were leaving when we were or I might of ended up paying for the whole trip myself. But hell, beggars can’t be choosers and the wife was already pissed. Might as well stay true to the course. I knew, however, where this new, or should I say lack of commitment was coming from. It was coming from -what he called anyway- his girlfriend. His married to somebody fucking else girlfriend, Rae, who was, no doubt in my mind what’s so ever, out right now spending his money (that, for whatever the fucking reason, she thought was rightfully hers) faster than he was in Vegas.

Now that Fat Joe’s attention was where it was suppose to be I went back watching the scenery past by at about a hundred miles an hour, Fat Joe’s voice droned on about his stupid fucking movie and why I should like it, and how it would be so cool if we were able to somehow relive it. (A fact that might be hard since neither of us had any Ecstasy or even had a clue where to find it), and like the cactus his voice just blurred into nothing but a tone as I tuned him out. Thinking about where and what my wife was doing at this moment in time. About how she was -like I stated before- pissed that I was leaving in the first place but then I went and came home two hours late -sans calling mind you- from work the day of. (mainly because I was told last minute that I had to pick Rae up from work because for some fucking reason she had to house sit while we were gone. Unfortunately for me Rae lived thirty miles in the wrong direction, that, and we only have the one car so my wife was stuck until my arrival) The very same day that she had made plans to go out with her friends as some kind of fuck you towards me. (If I can, she can sort of thing. It was a jealousy thing, I knew. A type of thing to get under my skin: if she didn’t know what I was doing than I can wonder what she was doing type of thing, and really I couldn‘t blame her) The two of us went through a stage where we hurt each other for what ever reason. Well, I knew why. I started it by fucking an old girlfriend then was retarded enough to tell her about it. Then she went out and did something similar in retaliation, that got me jealous to the point to where I did it again and so did she… and you know how the story goes. But then six months ago we finally came to our senses, and instead of divorce the two of us made a pact to stop the nonsense. And now, here I was going to Vegas without even the thought of even considering what she thought. And when I finally got home she let me know all about it as she grabbed her things. Things were said that probably shouldn‘t have been said, mainly on how much of an asshole I was, because we both knew they couldn’t be taken back. But then, of course, I had to top what she said -mostly because I was pissed that she was pissed and wouldn’t let me explain: “I hope the plane doesn’t crash or I just die because you’ll feel bad that those were your last words too me before I left.” The slam of the door was her reply.

“What?” I asked, turning back to Fat Joe and his sweaty head, not sure whether or not he actually said something with some sort of meaning or had nothing to do with the movie ’The Hangover’. “What?”

“I said: ’What the fuck is that?’”

I followed Fat Joe’s meaty finger as it pointed out the windshield, towards what, at first, I wasn’t sure what the fuck it was (figuring it was the heat playing tricks on my eyes, or being tired, or just fucking jetlag -whatever), but, yes, the thing I was looking at appeared to be a car: that of a car as it sat partially submerged in the ground nose first, it’s ass end hanging out, pointing towards the sky accusatorily as if it was dropped from the heavens by some child like God or some weird alien civilization that had grown tired playing with it. But whatever the case maybe of how the fuck it got there, it freaked me out, and I wasn’t ready yet to get a closer look as Fat Joe pulled our own metal beast off to the side of the road and parked near it. Up close I could see that this wasn’t just any car, but a late 1970’s police cruiser; the same black and white used in the movie ’The Blues Brothers’, and I almost expected to see them lying on the ground near us in the shade waiting for a ride. Mercifully, as I gave a cursory glace around, they weren’t. This trip was getting weird enough as it was.

“How do you think that got there like that,” Fat Joe stated. I guess he was talking to me as for I was the only person sitting next too him, but the with the way he said it I wasn’t all that sure, and it caused me to give another look around to make sure it was just us on this dusty -and, regrettably- lonely roadway. What a cliché this would be if some how the two of us went missing, abducted to be anally probed by…well…anything.

I hear the door pop as Joe opened it, letting in the blast furnace heat and giving me new appreciation to our little AC unit that tried so hard to keep it at bay. Gravel crunch under Joe’s foot as he stepped from the confines of our vehicle, and I found myself following suit, all-be-it on autopilot.

Up close the fear I felt recedes, and as I take it all in I can’t remember why I was uneasy with the car too begin with. I crouch down next to it and peer inside. Dirt has vomited from the air vents, like a sick child who ate too many sweats, and filled up the foot wells all the way up to the and past the bottom of the seats. I stick my head inside. What’s left of the seats are torn, grey with dust as their springs and metal skeleton are exposed; the windows are all smashed out, their remnants ground down too nothing and long forgotten. I hear Fat Joe say something I can’t make out as I crawl the rest of the way inside and stand on the broken and cracked dash board; where the steering wheel should be is just a hole partially filled with debris. I climb to the top and out the rear window. Fat Joe ran back to the car, pulled out his little camera and started taking pictures of me.
After about ten minutes we got over heated and bored; Fat Joe refused to go inside saying how he didn’t want to get dirty but we both knew it was because he’s so fat, whatever, I didn’t care if he didn’t, just that if he did to get it over and done with so I could get back to the world A/C.

Rocks pelted the bottom of the great metal beast, and a dust cloud rose behind as Joe pealed out and back on to the black top. Racing away and top speed, destination nowhere. We cruise along discussing on how the squad car got where it got, how it was a good thing we took pictures because no one was going to believe us when we told them back home.

The conversation fell away back to silence, the hum of the road the only noise now (the radio crapped out to mostly static and half garbled voices). I was ready to head back to the bright lights and choked casinos of Vegas whether Fat Joe wanted to or not, but before I had a chance to say anything he once again pointed his finger and asked, “What the hell is this now?”

Thankfully is wasn’t a half buried car this time around, but a sign that read: ’The Ranch: The Original Cathouse’.

We pulled into the lot that reminded me of a cantina I once went too in some Mexican backwater town when I was in college (And that’s not a good thing). A chain linked fence ran from both sides and around back of the windowless cinder blocked building; heat radiated off the roof and made the air appear wavy as the sun bounced off it. What looked like little single person campers sat inside the perimeter of the fence, behind the building -which I take is The Ranch.

Fat Joe looked over at me and smiled. “Hey, now this what I’m talking about.”

“What is?” I asked, annoyed, because I already know what the answer is going to be.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Pause, and even before I had the chance to answer “yes”, Joe continued on. “This is a whore house. An authentic fucking whore house.”

“Actually it’s a cathouse, it says so right there on their sign. And I fail too see your point?”

Fat Joe looks at me, confused. “What? You want to go in, don’t you?”

“In there?!” I point towards what just looks like hell; a scene from a bad B horror movie film filled my mind along with memories of the that time in Mexico that I‘d rather care to forget. “No I don’t want to go in there.” And if he felt that I should assuage him by going in there because this little trip of ours hasn’t yet lived up to what he thought it was, well, that was too fucking bad. I could just imagine what the girls inside looked like, and I figured we could find better looking whores at some truck stop than we were going to find inside The Ranch.
Joe gave me a stunned look. “We…Wha…Why not?”

“Well it seems pretty fucking dead for a whorehouse,” I pointed out the window towards the lot that had only two cars, “don’t you think?”

“Maybe it’s just… early?”

“Early? Really? Maybe it’s because that their whores look like ugly men rather than hot women.”

“So…”

“So lets go.”

Joe, dejectedly, put the metal beast in gear and pulled out of The Ranch: The Original Cathouse’s parking lot and -to my joy- it quickly receded behind us.
Silence regained it’s grip inside the car, only this time tension had seeped in as well, mostly it oozed from Joe like the sweet did from his pores. The silence, and the tension, didn’t last longer than a few minutes.

A few miles down the road another sign appeared above and next to the road. Wiping clean the scowl that was on Joe’s face.

Now this was how I thought a Nevada brothel should look, not like it was some third world prison camp you sent your undesirables, but with a resort like elegance, an elegance that was the Plush Horse.

The black top looked fresh and new as we pulled into the nicely landscaped parking lot, not yet faded by the ever present sun above our heads, and also, the Plush Horse actually had cars, all neatly parked in-between bright yellow lines, and from the looks of things it appeared to be a busy day.

I felt somewhat ashamed as Fat Joe parked our dirty, dust covered great metal beast we had rented the day we dropped into Vegas next too the gorgeous looking Mercedes, but then I felt slightly better when I saw that most of the other vehicles in the lot were about on par with ours.

“This looks like the place too be,” Joe declared, as we got out. The black top made the already unbearable heat even more unbearable, unlike when we got out and got a closer look at the car, while hot, the sand seemed to absorb the suns rays and back in Vegas itself the shadows of the buildings helped survive the heat, here however it seemed that the two us just stepped out at the gates of hell.

“Yeah, and I can see why,” I asserted, wiping the sweat from my brow, “being outside today is the worst. Whose idea was it to travel too the dessert at the end of August?”

“Hey, I didn’t hear you say ‘no thanks’ when I brought it up.”

A small flight of concrete stairs lead up and under an overhang, and I was more than grateful as the temperature must of dropped a good ten degrees as I walked under it; cool air greeted us as the buildings two huge doors swung open as we approached and I expected too see, maybe, a couple of huge security guards on the other end but our only greeting was the dark, mysterious interior so I figured that doors must have been automatic, then I saw the small camera as it sat above the door. It takes a moment for our eyes to adjust, but when they do I’m greeted to what I hope Heaven (if there is one) is like: Beautiful woman in lingerie strolling about; standing at the bar that‘s off to our left and in the back; at tables with customers. The whole place is that dissimilar than the restaurant bar that is back at our hotel. I, however, found two things strange as I took it all in. The first was how many -I guess you would call- regular women, meaning women that didn’t work there, just hanging out, talking with the girls and guys, eating and drinking like they were anywhere else than a house of ill repute. And the second were the wait staff. Readily serving the drinks and food. I took a sidelong look over at Fat Joe who was gazing back in my direction, a huge shit eaten grin plastered across his face. Before I had a chance to say anything, one of the wait staff, a stunning woman in her own right (but what would expect in a whorehouse?), walked over too us.
“Hi, welcome too the Plush Horse. First time?” she said, smiling.

“Shows that much, does it?” I replied.

“Wouldn’t worry about it. Are you going to want a table or are you just here for the bar?”

The smell of food hits me, reminding me that is was it was afternoon and that I hadn’t eaten anything since the breakfast buffet. “Table. Please,” I said.
She showed us a booth and told us that we could find the menus along the wall as she laid down another menu -what I figured was the drink list but was anything but- in front of us. I grabbed the two others, tossed one towards Joe as he picked up the menu that was left.

“Any good drink specials?” I asked.

“Ah, specials yeah, but I don’t know if they can be considered drinks.”

I looked over at Joe, confused, as he slides the menu over too me, and I’m astonished at what I see printed before me: A list of sexual fantasies (with one, two, three or more women; different rooms and parties) that read off like you would find on any other menu. The one real difference -other than it was all sex- was that there wasn’t any prices. Before I had a chance to take it all in a scantily clad Hispanic girl (who couldn’t of been over twenty) sat down next too me.
“Hi, my name is Rose,” she held out her hand for me to shake it, which I did. “Is this your first time at the Plush Horse?” The question was becoming a running theme, which I’m sure that they are all taught to say. Fat Joe answered for me as he eagerly holds out his own hand for her to take. “Awesome. You guys are in for a real treat. So, where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

“Cool. I’ve never been there, but I hear it’s great. Well, at least in the summer.” There wasn’t any trace of an accent as Rose spoke, which made me ask where she was from. “Born and raised in LA, baby.” Rose laughed as she said this, then quickly changed the subject. “So, anything on there look good too you?” Rose indicated the menu -the one for sex- that sat in front of me.

I looked down at it. “You might say that. But there aren’t any prices.”

“Yeah, I know. Stupid isn’t it. But state law says that we can’t discuss that unless we are back in our room.”

“That is stupid,” Joe chimed in, feeling, I suspected, a little left out of the conversation. “This is a whorehouse, isn’t?” Rose’s smile faded at the vulgarity of the way Fat Joe used the term, but quickly returned. “It is at that,” Rose replied. “So, would either of you like too, maybe, go back.” Rose looked at me the entire time she spoke. “Ah, I don’t know,” Joe asseverated. “We just got here and all; we’re still kind of taking the place in. Hell, we haven’t even got our first drink yet.”

“No problem, what do you want? I’ll run and get it, then, maybe, you guys would like a tour or something?”

Joe and I looked at each other, earnestly. “Sure,” I said, “That be would great.”
Rose departed for the bar as Joe’s grin returns. “She likes you.”

“Please. She’s paid too,” I said, rolling my eyes. Something I seemed to be doing a lot lately, especially on this trip.

Rose reappeared with our beers in the company of another, this one a sparsely dressed Asian girl, but ’girl’ isn’t really the appropriate word for her as she is somewhat older than Rose by, I would say, at least a decade.

“Hope you guys don’t mind that I my friend joins us?”

“Not at all,” Joe responded.

This one’s good, I thought as they sat down next too us -the new whore went right for Fat Joe, and immediately started flirting; laughing too hard at his bad wit, and was very touchy feel-y. Rose saw how Joe sort of danced around the whole going to the back issue, so she not only enticed us with a tour but brought along a friend as well. We drank the beers and then the two us were lead back to the inner sanctum. The inside of the Plush Horse was bigger than it appeared on the out, each ‘working girl’ had there own room where they, along with working mostly out of they also lived in (the two of them explained that each girl was required to be on premises for a three week stay). Along with the private rooms, the Plush Horse also had fantasy rooms that consisted from everything to dungeons (for the those who like to be tied and spanked) to the more romantic (bubble baths and garden rooms), out back, behind the building itself, was a large pool (that was empty at the moment, but we were assured that wild skinny dipping parties were commonplace), and just behind the pool were two small Spanish style villas that were rented out for parties of three or more and on a weekend basis.

“I can only imagine what that would cost?” Fat Joe joked.

“They start at ten grand if you want the ’weekend’ package,” the new girl -whose name was Buttercup, or so she told us anyway- unreservedly gave forth. I figured since we were all away from the front that prices could now be freely discussed.

“Money well spent, if you want my opinion.” Joe said; Buttercup squealed excitedly as he grabbed her, who in turn was more than happy to grab back -mostly around his cock.

The tour wrapped up back where we started: our table, where a fresh round of drinks had been deposited in our absence.

The girls left us alone for a moment (like I said, Rose was good), too do whatever whores do, Fat Joe turned to me after he watched them disappear in the back. “Well? Do you want too?”

“Do I want too, what?” I asked in response, feigning stupidity. For I knew exactly what he wanted too do.

“Do you wanna -you know-” Fat Joe leaned in closer over the table and dropped his voice to a near whisper “-with the girls?”

I leaned closer too Joe, and said, loudly, “Why are you whispering? We’re in a whorehouse.” Joe sat back, dejectedly. “And for the answer to your question: I don’t have the kind of cash that I expect they’ll ask for.”

“Come on. It can’t be that much.” I raised my eyebrow as Joe took a quick look back to where the girls went. “You don’t think so, do you?”

“All I’m saying is that with a place like this it ain’t cheap.”

“Tell you what, I’ll pay for yours.”

I raised my eyebrow a second time. “You must really want too get laid.”

“I’ve never been with an Asian before.”

“Joe, you haven’t been with a lot of girls before,” I laughed.

“Fuck you.” Pause. “So are you in or out?”

“What the fuck do you need me for?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t want to do it… alone…So, what do you say?”

“Fine. But only if you’re paying.”

Fat Joe slaps his palm on the table. “Hot damn!” He turned again excitedly to see if they were coming back.

Ten minutes later I found myself sitting upon a bed in a room that was slightly larger than the one I shared with Joe back at the Palms Casino.

“What would you like too do,” Rose said, sitting down next to me, handing me a menu that was like the one that was at the table. Only this one had prices and I nearly fell off the edge of the bed when I took notice of how much everything was. I quickly handed back the menu. “Nothing on there, Sweetheart.”

Rose tossed it back on the writing desk from once it came, crossed her legs, batted her eyes and said to me: “That’s fine by me. I always found that thing tacky anyway. Was there anything that you would like that wasn’t on there?”

“I don’t know.” I was stalling for time. While I put on a good game I wasn’t really up for this. And I knew it was just a matter of time when the phone would ring and Joe and I would be on our way, knowing that there was no way in hell he was going to pay these prices. The pause stretched into an uncomfortable silence as the call never came, and I could tell from Rose’s posture that either we make a deal or I walk away. “Well, that bubble bath room looked kind of nice.” I couldn’t believe my ears as the sound of my voice reached them. Bubble bath, where the fuck did that come from?

“That’s a start. Anything else?”

“Sex I guess.”

Rose laughs. “You guess.”

I felt as my face goes flush. “I mean, of course sex.”

Rose bats her eye again “Alright. Sex and the Bubble Bath room…” She thought for moment “…that will be eight thousand.”

I nearly choked as she said this. “That’s way too much. We did tell you guys that Joe was paying for it all right?”

“What price were you thinking then?” Rose asked, unperturbed.

“Five hundred?”

“Four thousand.”

“One.”

“Two thousand. That’s as low as I can go.”

“Two it is. But I’ll have to clear it with my friend.”

“Not a problem.” Rose stood up and made her way to phone that sat in the wall beside the bed, I took a gander around the room as she spoke in hushed tones and that’s when I first noticed that we were not alone. A small closed circuit camera sat in the upper corner. I found a second one near the door just as Rose came back and once again sat on the bed. “It’s all settled.”

“Glad too hear it,” I said, trying to hide the shock that I was feeling. Buttercup must really have Joe’s head up his ass.

“I’m going to go down to the cashier, so while I’m gone I need you to shower, okay? There are towels and soap and whatever else you need in the bathroom.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Rose kissed me on the lips as she stood. “Be back shortly.”

The bathroom was nice, large, and it took me a second to figure out why it had two toilets, then I felt like a moron as I realized that it was a bidet.

I was just finishing when Rose reappeared, helped me towel off then handed me a soft robe. “Follow me,” she said, taking my hand and leading me back down the hallway from which we came, we took a right instead of a left that would of took us back to the front.

An oversized in-ground tub was already filling as we arrived; white suds piling up like clouds atop the water. Rose sensually removed what she was wearing, revealing her tan skin, the darkness of her nipples, the very little pubic hair she had between her legs. All of which made me instantly hard. Rose left her heals on, and walked over too where I stood, reached inside my robe and tenderly caressed my erect cock. Rose slipped the robe off me, gently guided me towards the tub and helped me in before she slipped off her heals and slides in next too me. Rose reached over the side of the tub to the controls that were in the floor next to it and ceased the flow of water with a flick of a switch, she dimmed the lights with the same controls, brought up the jets making the water swirl, then she pressed on something else causing bubbles to fall from the ceiling. Rose quickly moved away from the side, turned, giving me her full attention.

“You like?” She asked as she maneuvered her way between my legs. I started to answer but the time for small talk was over as Rose grabbed the back of my head, pulling me close and kissed me deeply, passionately. With her other hand, Rose stroked my hard manhood, slowly at first but then with more gusto as I responded to her actions. My own hands found the soft parts of her body: her breasts, her pussy; Rose took my hand that found her cunt and guided it around her, our lips separated and she began to gasp and moan as she thrashed against me as I slide a finger in and out of her ass, waves of water sloshed over the side of the tub, Rose stroked my cock faster, squeezing it harder as she did and our moans became a chorus as we climaxed together. Rose leaned against me, the two of us panting -trying too catch our breath, my finger still deeply buried in her.

“You want too move on to the next round, or have you had your fill?” Rose asked, breathlessly; almost at a whisper.

Back at the private room, Rose told me to lay on the bed, straddled my body, tears the package on the condom she seemingly pulled from nowhere, then placed the rolled up piece of latex around me using only her mouth. The action had me rock hard all over again (which I assumed was the whole point of the process), then Rose took me in her hand and slides me inside her.

The bed squeaked as Rose grinded her pelvis against mine, this time around was all business like, but it didn‘t matter, and it didn’t take long for me to come a second time.

“I hope your friend had as good of time as you seemed too,” Rose said. I had to chuckle as she laid down next to me. Fat Joe was the last and furthest thing from my mind at that moment. “I’m sure he did,” I replied. “I’m sue he did.”

“I hope so. Because I would hate to think, since he paid and all, that his time wasn’t as good.”

I raised my head up off the pillow. “Believe me, it doesn’t take much for Joe to have a good time,” I said, a little annoyed. I mean, where the fuck was this coming from all of a sudden.

“That’s good. Buttercup knows how to please a man.”

“I’m sure she does.”

“Would mind though if we headed back, just to make sure that he doesn’t feel that if he was cheated; that you might have had a better time.”

I rolled my eyes as I got out of bed. “Yeah, sure.”

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“No,” I said, getting dressed. “Why would I be?”

Rose crawled across the bed to where I was standing, kneeled next to me on the bed, slipped her fingers through my belt hoops and pulled me closer. She looked up at me as I looked down, I could feel the warmth of her against my stomach, her breath on my chest as she spoke. “Listen,” Rose said, “you had a good time right?” I nodded my head as I pulled on my t-shirt. “Then do you think-” (‘Oh boy, hear it comes,’ I thought) “-that, maybe, I’m worth a tip? The house takes sixty percent of what I make from the client, but I get all of the tips.”

I knew it. I just fucking knew it. They work you over from every angle possible, squeezing you for all the money they can get. And since most people were still thinking with their dick they say yes to whatever they are asked. “Yeah, sure…I guess. But I don’t have a lot though,” I lied, “considering that -you know- my friend paid for this and all.”

“That’s no problem. Whatever you can give would be great.” Rose got out of bed, began to dress. “There is, however-” Rose faux cringes, and it’s so obvious that it is almost embarrassing “-one more thing.”

“There always is.”

“You have to tip our house Mother as well when we leave.”

“What the fuck for? It’s not like she did anything.” Rose looked somewhat shocked at my outburst, definitely not expecting it, the cameras quickly ran through my mind and what they were there for: security I was sure (and from the look on Rose’s face at the moment, I was almost expecting a group of thugs to burst through the door, kick my ass and take all my money, but then I thought how stupid that sounded),but what if they made tapes of all that goes on in these rooms (more stupidity, I’m sure), so I said fuck it and asked how much -or how little, really- I had to give this person.

“Just a hundred will do.”

“Fine. But that hundred is coming out of what I would gave you.”

Rose lead me back, she was silent the entire way. The house mom sat in a little office with a window that looked out into the hall, almost like a receptionist at a doctors office. She asked if I had a good time and I told her that yes I did, and that there was a hundred for her as well as the two for Rose. So much for being ahead in the cash department. After that, Rose took lead me back to the bar, got me a beer (on the house, thankfully, since I’ve spent too much as it was for something that was suppose to be paid for -almost like this trip itself), and sat with me. Fat Joe was nowhere in sight, and I was hoping that he wouldn’t be much longer. I was more than ready to go.

After a couple of minutes on small talk about nothing, Rose excused herself -she had to get cleaned up, she said.

I was happy she was gone.

A while later, Fat Joe came back, his Buttercup in tow, beaming like a man who just won the lottery. They sat across from me in the booth. “How was it?” Joe asked.

“Great. How about you?”

Joe and Buttercup giggled like a couple of schoolgirls -annoying the shit out of me in the process- being all touchy feely once again. “Oh, yeah. It was the time of my life.”

“Good too hear. So, are we ready to go then?”

“Go? Why? What’s the matter?” Buttercup whined.

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just tired and it’s like an hour back to Vegas.”

Joe looked a little perturbed by the fact that I was ready to hit the road, but he said, “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

“Oh, do you have too?” Buttercup whined again. Her voice was beginning to grate my nerves, and I could tell that Fat Joe was picking up on my annoyance.

“Yeah, Sweetheart, we have too.”

The sun had set during our time at the Plush Horse, the air felt cool and nice, not that bottled air that seemed to permeate the inside of the bar and all the rooms, just a glow over the horizon that could only be the lights Vegas.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him, for Joe been quiet for quite awhile for a guy who just got laid as we drove back and I was beginning to wonder why.

Fat Joe sat quietly, saying nothing in return, I was beginning to get a sense of deja vu, when he finally spoke. “Nothing…well…I don’t know…No, it’s nothing.” He stammered.

“Fuck, dude. Just spit it out already.”

“Well, I feel bad.”

I looked over at Joe, the glow from the lights on the dashboard illuminated his face and it and gave the impression that his head was floating in space from the blackness outside the window. “You feel bad about what?” I asked.

“Well…well, this was the first time that I ever cheated on Rae. And I feel bad about it.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me right?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Had it ever occurred to you that she’s married? Married to someone other than your dumbass? That, maybe, you can’t possibly cheat on someone that’s, ah, oh yeah, that’s already cheating on their fucking husband with you?!”

“But-”

“But nothing! Just shut the fuck up and drive! If anyone here should feel fucking bad it‘s me since I‘m actually married.”

I rolled the window down so the noise of the wind would drown out anything else Fat Joe had to say, and stared off into the darkness…

COPYRIGHTED PAUL DABROWSKI 2011

"What's The Matter?"

I hardly noticed that Margie had even crawled into bed with me, or as she rubbed her breasts against my back as she slid in close too me, nor her warm breath upon my neck, not even her hand as it skimmed across my arm, over my chest to cross my stomach lightly. No. No the first real inclination that I wasn’t alone any longer was when I felt her grab a hand full of my cock, which in turn she got a lot of, well, a whole lot of nothing. Nadda. No stirring in the loins, no perky hardness. No, just me limp in her hand.

“What’s the matter?”

“Huh?…What?” was about all I can manage at this hour, having been in deep sleep mere seconds ago. One moment I’m sitting in a bar that opens up on to a beach, the cool ocean air blowing in upon my face and the next I’m looking into almost complete darkness in a state of confusion.

My cock flops around uselessly in Margie’s hand as she juggles my junk as asks again: ‘What’s the matter?’

“What’s the matter? Nothing’s the matter. Why would there be anything the matter?”

“Well, there was a time when just getting into bed was enough to get you hard, and now here I am rubbing my tits against your back, grabbing your balls and I get… nothing.”

I roll over on to my back to face her. My eyes having finally adjusted to the dark and being awake. “Listen, nothing’s wrong. Really. I was dead asleep. That’s all. Nothing more. Nothing less Okay?”

Margie’s outline stairs back at me, but I don’t need light to know what her face looks like: brow furled, biting her upper lip as she thinks about what I just said. And I’m hoping that’ll be enough to sedate her; lull her into just going to sleep, because otherwise this will go in one of two ways: either she’ll still want to have sex, something I’m usually down with, but I had a long day yesterday and I have to get up early with the fact that today will be just as long, the plus side too that is at least I can hurry it along, or, the one I’m most worried about, is that Margie’s going want too have ’The talk’ because she thinks that a) I’m not attracted to her any longer, or b) I’m seeing someone else. Then any thoughts of actually going back to sleep for another couple of hours will disappear, lost to an endless debate of nonsense and speculation that will probably last for days. So I’m hoping for the latter because it’s gone past the point of her of just calling it quits and going to sleep.

As I think about a prevented strike -going in for the sex for before Margie has time to think things through my heart sinks. She removes her hand from me, and at first I think with a flicker of hope that maybe disaster has bee averted only too only watch her instead of lying down prop her head up on one hand, pull her legs up together and wrap her free arm around them.

“So, what’s the matter? Really?” I have too strain to hear Margie as she says this and now I know how it‘s going too be The only thing going through my mind now is: fuck fuck fuck…

The Round Barn Winery (Review)

One of the things I can say about the Round Barn is that I always seem to have a good time whether I'm with a huge group or with just my wife.

If you see on the map that they're not that close to the highway and byways the criss-cross the state of Michigan don’t let that stop you because that doesn't stop anybody else from going since the Round Barn is nicely situated right in the middle of the Lake Michigan Wine Trail, which is (in my opinion) a must do.

When I first started going there several years ago they were just coming out with their own beer, and the only other thing on the menu besides wine was brandy. Now the Round Barn has entered the arena of vodka, bourbon, and rum as well. All of which are must haves on any drinkers and occasional drinkers list.

There are two tasting rooms. One for strictly beer (but back when I first started going was the main tasting room), and the Barn where you do all the rest. And yes it's round. Depending on the day and the time of the year you may have the place all too yourself or it can be you fighting for a place at the bar. For five dollars a glass (which you get too keep, and when you bring it back your tasting is free) you get too choose from their vast wine list five either white or red wines, one dessert wine, one of any of the spirits, and a beer token to take to the other building for a glass of their

The place is large enough that if you wanted to buy a bottle and just hang out, which on a hot summer day is a great idea (and one I‘ve done on many of occasions), too just kick back and stretch ones legs in the shade.

My only real complaint is that the Round Barn is a little trendy (but what winery isn't now-a-days), and the patrons who seem to have seen the movie "Sideways" one too may times can come off rather snobby. But don't let that deter you from going because most of them are not like that. Just beware that in the summer months that the place is usually packed on the weekends and don't be surprised if you get the errant wedding or two as well.

You can the Round Barn @ 10983 Hills Road Baroda, Michigan

Cheers

Hickory Creek Winery (Review)

I found Hickory Creek Winery back in 2006 the year they first opened strictly by accident as I cruised the along what I thought was a little used but actually was a well traversed Michigan back road, lost, as I tried to (wrongly I might add) retrace my way to the Round Barn Winery from my last trip along the Lake Michigan Wine Trail but had instead taken a wrong turn or two somewhere along the way only to come across a large flag with the word OPEN upon it.

A small tasting room connected to the vats storage sat at the end of a long gravel/dirt driveway that cut through the rows upon rows of grape vines along with a cozy little house I later found out was for rent on a weekend/weekly basis to whoever had wanted to rent it.

We parked in an nearly empty lot at the time, now however it depends on the time of day and year if you get to be so lucky, and once inside I found an Aussie who went by the name Mike tending bar, alone. Turned out my new bartender bud was also co-owner and chief wine maker of Hickory Creek, and was more than kind enough to take us on a little tasting tour of his wines. All of them. They were mostly white at the time, being that most of his reds were still barreled, but Mike assured us that soon they would be ready too go. And they are. Now when you go there, there is well mix of whites and reds to choose from.

Since then, Hickory Creek is on my must stop list and is generally my first stop when I do the wine tour. I prefer their Chardonnay to anyone else's and I hate Chardonnays so that should tell you something, but whatever your taste I‘m sure you can find something that will sooth your appetite for wine. But be prepared to spend a little cash doing so. The Hickory Creek’s cheapest bottle is over ten dollars.

Unfortunately, Mike is no longer tending the tasting room, but he has been replaced by a very nice lady by the name Rosemary (I believe) and she is more than happy to let you sample to hearts desire.

You can find Hickory Creek at 750 Browntown Road Buchanan, Michigan

Cheers

Thanks For The Flowers (Some Explicit Sex)

Sandy’s pussy squirted when she came; her juices flowed down the sides of her legs as Guy filled her with his hard cock. She moaned and grunted with his every thrust. Digging her nails into his back leaving long red lines. Some drawing blood. He raised up, pushing himself up on to his hands straining his forearm muscles as Sandy wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles, afraid he might get away. But she had no reasons to worry. Guy having no intentions of trying to get away. Only to push deeper inside her.

Sandy was beginning to think that she was destined to be the other woman for the rest of her life as she went to answer the door buzzer; Guy standing holding flowers -lilies, her favorite- on the other side looking strange through the fish-eyed lens of the door’s peephole. She leaned her head against the door, unsure of what to do. Her mind said don’t answer, that it would only bring her pain and heartbreak -again; her heart wouldn’t let her though.

God he looked good, she thought.

A thousand questions ran through her head: Why was he here? How the hell did he find me? Was he still married? Excreta. Excreta.

The buzzer sounded a second time, then a knock. He was about to give up. Move away, move on. Sandy could hear the desperation in his hand as it banged gently against the door. It was now or never. Did she answer and go back down that road, or does she let him leave? And in doing so finally move on with her own life?

“Don’t go,” she said to slowly a retreating figure in the hallway.

“I was afraid you…”

“Afraid of what? I wasn’t home?” She giggled, she couldn’t help herself. She felt giddy standing there in the doorway talking to her life’s one great love. Why was it that she couldn’t find someone without all the access baggage? “Or were you afraid that I didn’t want to see you? Or perhaps that I moved on?”

“I don’t know. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. I was just… afraid. We didn’t leave things well the last time we saw each other.”

Sandy could remember the last time like it was yesterday, the pain still fresh. The cheap airport motel he rented; how itchy the course bed sheets felt on her back as they kissed. Guy’s hand moving across her breasts, down her stomach, in-between her legs. The thought of that almost took her breath away as she stood there. But then she remembered how it all ended: the tears, the broken promises. The sweet and tender apologizes. That mad dash from the room into a rainy night like some bad ending to a pulp novel. Hard to believe it had been five years. He had a fiancé then. Now, she assumed, wife. She moved, physically. Twice. Tried to move on mentally. And when that didn’t work tried to fuck him out of her system with countless guys, girls. Whoever. And after a while it seemed to work. She didn’t think about him (as much), and when she did the pain wasn’t as bad. But now here he was. Standing in front of her. A memory made flesh. But was it the angle version she had of Guy or the devil? Did matter?

No. It didn’t

“Well, come on in.” Sandy opened the door all the way and stepped aside so he could enter. “We have a lot to catch up on.” That familiar sent as he walked by; the tingling her body made as his hand brushed against her arm. Sandy promised herself she’d be good. But she knew deep down it was for naught. “Are you still married?”

“Ah, the same old Sandy.”

“What? I think it’s a fair question.” The door shut harder that she intended, surprising not only her, but Guy. She leaned against the door, hands behind her back to keep them in check incase they decided to have a mind of their own.

Guy laughed. “I guess it is.” He sighed deeply. “So, yes, I’m still married. But truth be told, it’s a marriage of conveyance not of passion.” Guy quickly added. “I brought you flowers. Are lilies still your favorite?”

Sandy’s primal urge seemed to take over, the flowers fell to the floor and she was on him, pulling his lips to hers forcefully before she even knew that she had. Her other hand tore open his shirt, scratched at his chest, squeezed his nipples. Then Sandy dragged her nails down his stomach. She could feel his hardness through his jeans. Sandy pulled her lips from his; her hand from the back of his neck to concentrate on undoing his pants. Falling to her knees as she yanked them down. Guy gasped as Sandy clenched his cock in her hand, slowly stroking it as she looked at him greedily. Then she took him into her mouth. He almost exploded then and there as he grabbed onto the sides of her head, forcing her to slow. But then she would work her tongue around his shaft. Guy shuttered as he released into her mouth. It had been so long since he’d been this excited.

Sandy looked so young as she gazed up at him, gently kissing the head of his cock. “Now that we’ve had the appetizer, I think it’s time we move to the bedroom for the main course.”

Sandy took Guy on a carnal ride of all the things she had learned over the years of trying to forget him. The time of him being more knowledgeable of pleasures of the body were a thing of the past. And now that he had a taste of it, he didn’t want to let it go.

Guy fell next to her spent, covered in sweat and bodily secretions one could only get through sex. “God…damn…” he said, breathlessly. “I don’t remember it…quite like…that.”

Sandy was silent for a moment, catching her own breath. Then she said: “Yeah, well, I’ve learned a thing or too since you’ve been gone.”

Sandy got out of bed, and walked naked too the bathroom. Another thing Guy saw that was new. The Sandy before -his Sandy back when they were an under cover item- would never had dome that. She was more of the cover up after sex type of girl, but this version of the girl he knew was much improved. And something he was going enjoy keeping around instead of the one night stand as he intentioned. And Guy was about too say as much -whatever he needed too say to get her back, when Sandy called out from the other room:

“You know, Guy, I hate too a bitch, but I think you should go. You know it goes: Places to go, people too see. But, hey, thanks for flowers.”

Copyrighted: Paul Dabrowski 03/21/2011