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Saturday, June 30, 2007

Reactions to the Season Finale of Doctor Who


Yay for continuity! I guess...

What? WHAT? You're going to "deus ex machina" this bitch? But...I mean...but...!?

...and press the "reset button!?" But...COME ON! Oh, for crap's sake, Davies!

"The Face of Boe they called me..."

Oh, BULLSHIT they did, Jack! No, that's just bullshit!


That's it, I'm out.


Okay, so I think I was wrong about the whole "Cloverfield" is code for "Star Trek" idea, but almost-baseless speculation is a family tradition over here, so I've got a Doctor Who related tingling in my spider-sense: [be forewarned, for thar be spoilers a'ead]

The end of "Last of the Time Lords" shows (somewhat regrettably) the bow of a boat smashing through the walls of the TARDIS. (the hell?) A life preserver is cast off from the boat, and when our friendly neighbourhood Time Lord examines it, it has (ba-bada-ba) "Titanic" stenciled onto it. Now, if you'll recall, (and if you're any sort of real Who fan, you will recall) the Ninth Doctor (*sigh* Christopher Eccleston*sigh*) could be seen in Southampton accompanying a family who were due to sail on the Titanic in a photograph in the series' pilot episode, "Rose." (awww.) In the next episode, "The End of the World," good old Niner actually relates an adventure he had on a boat where he ended up "clinging to an iceberg," a sure give-away that he was on theTitanic. So - Ninth Doctor was on the Titanic, and the Tenth Doctor looks like he's just about to join him. I bet you know what I'm thinking: "The Two Doctors." Ninth Doctor, Tenth Doctor, together at last! It's an idea that makes mgiggle in anticipation. Gawd, I hope it's true.

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Friday, June 29, 2007

Wrasslin' Wreview

I just got finished reading The Death of WCW, by R. D. Reynolds and Bryan Alvarez, and boy, am I ever grateful that I never got into WCW back in my wrestling-enthusiast days. "The Death of WCW" recounts the many ways in which that "sports entertainment" organization screwed fans, disappointed fans, wasted money with neglible benefit to the fans, and behaved, essentially, as if they really didn't even have any "fans."

One thing I am very confident in is my new-found opinion that Wrestling fans should not be allowed to go anywhere near the printed word. And I'm not talking about the two fans who wrote this book - it's fantastic for this age; written by guys who run a Wrestling fansite, their prose necessarily needs to be writer's writing, that is, as simple as possible, while still maintaining a comfortable rhythm. Cudos to these wrestling fans. And there are the wrestling fans who helped along the "WWE Books" subsidiary by buying a bunch of "novels" that strain credulity by being based around the premise that Triple H can pull off a convincing turn as a secret agent, but they're reading, so at least they're trying to enrich their lives. No, the fans that I believe should have to be frisked before stepping into a Barnes & Noble's are the ones who actually read this book - I mean this particular copy of the book. Good lord, it looks like it was carried down the street in the mouth of a Rottweiler that was being dragged behind a rusted-out pick-up. The cover is missing more than one corner, the edges of the pages carry a strange salt-and-pepper pattern where it hasn't been turned completely black, and every third page carries someone's cast-off genetic material (which may turn out to be beneficial, as it means that at least some of this book-destroying neanderthal's genes have been removed from the pool). By the second chapter (fittingly titled, "The War Begins"), I was afraid to continue reading without wearing two layers of gloves and tucking my pants into my socks.

While I did praise the book for it's straight-forward writing style that was obviously nurtured by experience writing for an internet audience, I do have to question it's schizophrenic content: sometimes it's reading as a biography, with straight facts and an insider's analysis, but this will be interrupted by the sudden intrusion of typical web-influenced humour. The ellipsis is used to denote pauses, and unacademic criticism arises with such phrases as "Yes, that's what he actually wanted to do" in reaction to one booker's plan for a pair of hunch-backed tag-teamers. All told, that wouldn't have been undesirable, if the rest of the book had adopted on a similarly informal tone - but it doesn't. Instead of the snarky sarcasm that typically peppers internet discourse, absurd situations (such as an early idea of Eric Bischoff's, a wrestling match that involved combatants competing to retrieve an uncooked turkey from atop a pole) should have been reported simply, and left to the reader to make the reaction of"Really?" There are small interstitials within the text that provide trivial asides, meant to compliment the main history, where the snarkiness actually works well, but the smart-ass shouldn't' be allowed to leave these areas. When it does spill over into the main body, it feels just like a big, awkward, wrongly-played note in an otherwise beautiful symphony.

Technical aspects aside, one of the most surprising elements of the book is the portrayal of Terry "Hulk" Hogan, not as the good-natured, "nice guy" he's always portrayed as, but as an egotistical ass who wanted all of the attention focused squarely on himself - for example, Bischoff's WCW was able to land Hogan because Vince McMahon over at the WWF wanted to push some of the younger talent, and Hogan was promised that he would be champion and center of attention over at Ted Turner's WCW.

In the end, the book is an enjoyable and captivating read, but is more suited toward the fan with a more-than-casual knowledge of professional wrestling. A lot of esoterica is thrown about ( for example, "cut a promo") which limits the books accessibility to the non-fan, so I wouldn't recommend this volume to anyone who doesn't know what "Austin 3:16" refers to, or what "Mr. Socko's" primary occupation was. To the person who not only knows all that, but just ran-off a list of the top-3 matches to include the aforementioned Socko, this book is a worthwhile purchase.

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Wednesday, June 27, 2007

LOL Ron Hubbard

Yeah... you laugh now, but I'm the one who's gonna get "Fair Gamed" over this.


Okay, maybe just one more:

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Tuesday, June 26, 2007


So, apparently J.J. Abrams, can-do-no-wrong producer of Lost and the eventual producer/could-be director of the next Star Trek film, has been working on a film called Cloverfield for a while now, and has had it cloaked in secrecy locked up so tight that a sonic screwdriver couldn't budge it.

But I'm thinking... what if this is the Star Trek film? What if "Cloverfield" was a name they decided to use to maintain utmost secrecy while working on the project? The Star Trek guys know what negative vibe can do to a movie, and that Trekkers/Trekkies have been spoiling movies since long before the internet ever reared it's multi-mouth'd head (Spock was "killed" in the opening minutes of Star Trek II during a simulation to try to keep the surprise of his real death). Numerous movies before have used this tactic as well - George Lucas shot Return of the Jedi under the assumed name of "Blue Harvest" so he wasn't ripped off when paying for film services (or besieged by fans, for that matter).

Five bucks says Cloverfield is Star Trek: Incognito, and that the trailer described here is a plant. "Moriarty" thinks that the trailer will be attached to Transformers, which, for the record, is a movie from Star Trek's company, Paramount. Here's hoping.

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Friday, June 22, 2007

Another of Von Doom's Nefarious Plans Succeeds wonders, "Where are the fantastic four?"

Missing: 1 (one) lake,

If found, please drop in nearest mailbox.

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Tuesday, June 19, 2007

It's Like a Second Language to Me

Not-so-stupid posts resume on Wednesday.

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Tuesday, June 12, 2007

It Was Just One of Those Days

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Sunday, June 10, 2007

Night Gallery: Calling Dick Tracy

I've been purging myself of every collectible thing that I never really cared for, following the death of one Gerorge Takei autograph that was mercilessly eaten through by the nasty liquid contained within an old "Star Wars" Pepsi can I was holding onto, a can which is not as leak-proof as one might assume. Other casualities include a Star Wars Episode One pin where Yoda arrogantly assumed he could predict my future, saying that I would "read," I would. I'm a little glad to rid of that guy, actually.

Part of the purge included a thorough sort-through of my computer's hard-drive, during which many Beatles MP3's were deleted, and I discovered a cache of odd JPG's, of whose origin I am mysteriously unaware. They were scanned from a 1959 issue of the Toronto Star, but who made the images, where I got them, and why I should have them is a complete mystery. A mystery for the likes of Dick Tracy!

Yes, remember officers: when driving around in a police car, complete with flashing red light on top, you'll want to remain as inconspicuous as possible. It is also recommended that you wear your full dress uniform when participating in any undercover sting operations - that way there'll be no misunderstandings.

Dammit, Tracy doesn't can't even grasp what the heart is without a visual representation. I think we need another detective.

Tracy's horrifying deficiencies with regard to stealth and anatomical knowledge aside, the most shocking thing about these images is the insight that they provide into modern-day police work. For example, we now what REALLY happened to Paris Hilton, the arrest all being a clever ruse to draw out her would-be killers (click to embiggen):

Boy, you've gotta love Dick Tracy, eh? If he's not profiling criminals with horribly offensive nicknames to much their terrible deformities, he's calling the anorexic "fatty." Twas truly a more innocent time.

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Saturday, June 09, 2007

Relatively Serious TV Reviews

Good evening gentlemen and gentlewimmins, it is the first post of what I'd like to call my "Non-Procrastinatory Period." I just got finished watching the new episode of the BBC's Doctor Who, and I have to say that "Blink" is the best episode of the series since the first season's "The Empty Child/ The Doctor Dances." And by odd happenstance, they were both written by Steven Moffat. Hm.

This ep was part of the new tradition (started in season 2, last year, with the embarrassing "Love and Monsters") of having one episode which could legitimately be called "Doctor Who Lite," which has half the tar and 70 percent less Doctor + 1 (one) companion than a usual episode in the series. I think these are done to save money and to ensure that they get all 13 episodes done on time, since they allow shooting to go on even while the big D, David Tennant, and Martha Jones, what's-her-face, are busy. They could also be done because it's cheaper and easier to take the pilot episode of a failed show, throw a TARDIS into a few scenes at the beginning and the end, and call it a day - sort of a "Plan 9 From Gallifrey" type deal.

"Blink" deals with a bunch of aliens who turn to stone whenever people look at them, but who come to life and send people back into the past (described as a method of eating the energy of "all the days they never got a chance to live" in a bit of pseudoscience that strains credulity, even for a Doctor Who villain), to where they're forced to "live to death." The explanation is glossed over as "timey-wimey" stuff, but it really doesn't effect the enjoyment of this episode - unless, of course, you were a big fan of Star Trek TNG. In that case, then, you're going to want to get the technical manual when it comes out.

This whole "statue" dealy is really effective, both as a means of scaring the crap out of you, and as a means for the SFX crew to take a breather and just cast a few plastic statues to scare the viewers with. Hey, what can I say? It's effective as all hell. Which surprised me as all hell, too - I figured that this "Doctor Who Lite" would bring back memories of last season's "Love and Monsters," an absolutely horrible, unfunny mess that was only made worse by the fact that it was followed up by "Fear Her," whose monster consisted of crudely drawn vandalism. Of course, we can't forget that "Love and Monsters" was written by Russel T. Davies, who, even though he deserves respect for reviving the old series and casting Christopher Eccleston for Season 1, is a terrible hack who finds a way to make dialogue torturous, and has an uncanny knack for making the viewer sexually uncomfortable. For "Blink," someone must've made a call to the Big Guy Upstairs (BBC's head of drama) and gotten Russ occupied with ruining yet another season finale by Deus Ex Machina-ing it to death, because his grubby little mitts are kept far clear of this episode - and it really is all the better for it.

"Blink" had all the makings of a disaster for a big-timey television show: low budget, very little presence of the show's stars, and yet it's a well-written, solid episode that doesn't end cheaply, and actually managed to creep me the fuck out. Now, compare this to the big-time flashy episodes of "Daleks in Manhattan" and "Evolution of the Daleks," which we're supposed to await with bated breath just because "OMG DALEKS!!11!," and you can which person the BBC should put all their chips behind when it comes time for the big Russ to step down as producer.

To be put succinctly: "Blink" is awesome, and you should watch it and name all of your future pets "Steven Moffat."

Tommorow? I might review a comic or something. Stay tuned.

UPDATICUS: There seems to be a cool little "Chicken Soup for the Doctor Who Fan's Soul" coming out, "Views from behind the Sofa" by David May. You knows I likes me my books, so check it out.

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