Top Ten Reasons Michael Jackson's Thriller is the Best Video of All Time

Michael Jackson has been dead for less than a week and already you can obtain over 72 million search results if you Google the words "Michael Jackson's death."

It's almost comical, except that it's just not funny. The tasteless jokes began minutes after the first confirmed news report of his death and they have barraged the Net since.

Some are so bad I wonder about the character of the people who come up with them. They seem obsessed with finding creative (and highly repetitive) ways to feature punchlines about adults having sex with small boys.

Is this considered humorous for some reason?

Countless enraged souls have felt compelled to tell the whole world how much the alleged pedophile deserved to die. As far as I know, he was never convicted of any such crime as there was no physical evidence. I understand that there was circumstantial evidence and testimony, but a shadow of a doubt certainly persisted.

So, millions are convinced he was guilty and millions more are convinced he was innocent. For this conflict I defer to the song lyric from Dire Straits' Industrial Disease: "Two men say they're Jesus. One of 'em must be wrong." (Hmmm. Maybe we should let God settle the debate!)

Regardless of what you believe, you can be sure that the media circus will not be packing up its big top anytime soon.

So far, there has been an endless procession of teary-eyed tributes that labeled the man everything from The King of Pop to The Gloved One. Jackson has always been a larger-than-life legend, requiring a capital "The" in his various monickers. (You know you've made an impact on pop culture when the public adds a "The" to your nickname.)

At any rate, the media will no doubt continue to beat the news story to death, popping up with new story angles on an hourly basis: the medications that may or may not have lead to his cardiac arrest; the public's reaction to the tragedy/retribution; Paris Hilton's callous reaction (who really gives a f#!@?); the results of the first autopsy; the need for a second autopsy; the custody situation of his children; the contents of his will; his $400 million in debts and the fate of Neverland Ranch; and the list goes on and on.

When a widely popular celebrity dies, I prefer to simply look at the bigger picture. I was never a die-hard Michael Jackson fan, but I did own Thriller and played it repeatedly during junior high and enjoyed the Hell out of it. It was an iconic album, period. Thus, I do believe the world is a much less interesting place without him.

After all, Michael Jackson sold more than 750 million albums worldwide, penned 13 #1 singles, and had 47 songs make it onto the Billboard Hot 100. He received 13 Grammy Awards and was inducted twice into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (once as a solo artist and once as a member of the Jackson 5).

However, despite that relentless resume, his most impressive accomplishment to me, hands down, was making the best music video of all time: Thriller.

Here are the Top Ten reasons why it will always be the best:

1) It was listed in the 2006 Guinness World Records as the "most successful video" selling over 9 million units.

2) It was directed and co-written by John Landis, which means it's creepy and funny. Landis's impressive body of work includes: An American Werewolf in London, The Three Amigos and The Blues Brothers.

3) It clocks in at almost 14 minutes long (13:43 to be exact) making it the longest music video ever.

4) Michael Jackson plays multiple roles in it quite well, including: a 1950s teen who is gas gauge illiterate, a fluffy were-cat creature and an agile zombie in a shiny red leather suit (an iconic image if there ever was one).

5) It co-stars a Playboy centerfold named Ola Ray.

6) Vincent Price provides the voice-over in spooky, tongue-in-cheek fashion. Price was right for the role. He appeared in over 100 films in his lifetime altogether, but most will remember him for his eerie voice, which was pitch perfect for narrating tales of the macabre.

7) The Nederlander Organization recently acquired the rights to Thriller in order to revise it into a Broadway musical soon. I'm not even remotely kidding.

8) The totally awesome Rich Baker provided the prosthetics and monster makeup. The man has won six Oscars for Best Makeup Effects.

9) The video cost half a million to make in 1983. My math may be fuzzy, but I think that is the equivalent to almost 764 million today.

10) The Dancing Zombies! You know what I'm talking about.

Reader Mail #1

It has been a hectic week for me as my Passing Thoughts blog is becoming quite the time-consumer. True, writing the actual blogs does not take much time as I put no effort into them whatsoever and they are designed to be wordy, interminably slow and hackneyed.

At any rate, there's an old analogy I am quite fond of that goes like this: An infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewriters for an infinite amount of time will eventually produce all the works of Shakespeare.

Unfortunately, my budget is considerably threadbare. I can only hire one monkey and, quite frankly, he's missing a few fingers and most of his brain so you are getting only about .002% Shakespeare. That's the best I can do. Frankly, you are quite lucky NOT TO BE reading something along the lines of "8rzejguk9i" right now.

Still, it seems that the writings on this blog have somehow generated millions and millions of comments from readers. So, instead of coming up with something new or original to write about, I'm giving the monkey the day off and will simply post some reader feedback. I am truly amazed at how positive it has been.


Dear Hopeless Heathen,

I recently read your blog about cursing (titled: WTF?!? The Speculated History of Cussing) and I must say I was shocked, mortified and spiritually disemboweled by your blatant acts of heinous sin. (I mean, really, blaming Adam for the advent of profanity!) Do you even possess a soul, you vacuous kibble-eating monstrosity of DNA.

On behalf of those who are going to Heaven, I’d just like to say that I hope you enjoy your reserved box seats in Hell, you brainless heap of regurgitated spam jelly.

Sincerely (Hoping You Rot In the Flames of Eternal Damnation),

I. M. Adeup

P.S. You truly are a testament to the dire need of birth control.

P.S.S. I took the liberty of attaching a picture of Satan himself (below) so you can begin having nightmares of him long before you are forced to be his bitch-maiden throughout Eternity.

I Am New Orleans

Its initials may spell “NO” but its attitude continues to be undeniably “YES.”

I just returned from my second trip to New Orleans in six months and I continue to be impressed with the city’s resilient spirit.

My first visit to the Big Easy was in 2001. My impressions could be summed up with one word: Daaaammmn.

Strolling along Bourbon Street at night, I was hypnotized by the rhapsodic music that emanated from every open door. My eyes darted back and forth as blissfully drunk pedestrians stumbled in serpentine fashion and women everywhere lifted up their shirts in an unprecedented display of spontaneous public nudity (prompted only by the enticement of cheap and colorful plastic beads, no less).

I had simply assumed that New Orleans was only that wild and crazy during Mardi Gras, but clearly, partying is a full-time, year-round profession for those carefree Creoles.

Of course, when I went there in 2001, the streets were much more crowded than they were in 2008 and 2009. However, the numbers seem to be climbing back up again.

It's really amazing how much the community has bounced back from Hurricane Katrina. That is probably the reason why it disheartens me so whenever I engage in conversations with various people who think they are experts on the current state of New Orleans even though they haven't even visited there recently.

People are under the false impression that cut-throat murderers lurk everywhere, attacking innocent pedestrians on the street without rhyme or reason. Or, they are convinced the city smells like rotting corpses and all the tourist attractions are closed up and abandoned.

Sure, and the cotton candy clouds have soaked up the Mississippi like giant fluffy pink sponges from beyond our solar system.

I understand that when Katrina steamrolled through New Orleans, there was unspeakable devastation and catastrophic casualties. The death toll reached over 1,400 people and the city’s population was vastly reduced immediately after the disaster. But, it is almost four years later and the Crescent City is as indomitable as it is inspirational.

There are more restaurants in the French Quarter than ever, and they actually wash the streets in the region every day. The locals are overtly hospitable and friendly, as well, as if they are desperately trying to make up for the fallen city image that people seem to doggedly fixate on.

Of course, other areas of the city (which were directly hit) are still recovering and it will take many more years to come. When I recently engaged in a tour past neighborhoods in the Lower 9th Ward, I observed the city at its best and worst simultaneously.

The old destroyed houses evoke an air of despair as soon as you spot them. Many of them are still adorned with the spray-painted symbols on the front where rescue workers in small boats arrived and learned instantly if/when the home had been searched, how many survivors and casualties were recorded, and other details such as if leaking pipes and dead pets were discovered.

Yet, many who still live there refuse to remove the painted information. Instead, it serves as a personal memorial. It's a stark reminder, but also a genuine gesture of respect.

The Lower 9th Ward is particularly interesting because you can see a few of the newly-built Make It Right Foundation houses which are much stronger, safer and more storm-resistant than their historical counterparts. The new additions are also quite ecologically friendly and brightly-colored causing them to stand out completely in the area.

Seeing the old and the new buildings juxtaposed makes you realize how much potential humanity has to overcome the impossible from time to time.

Also in the neighborhood lies an interesting memorial (see picture below) constructed to honor those who lost their lives in the tragedy. They are represented by the empty red chairs. The blue poles denote the different levels of the flood waters during the storm. As for the partially-constructed house, it is a physical representation of the city's ongoing rebuilding efforts.

The message in the window of the incomplete house simply reads: "I AM COMING HOME. I WILL REBUILD. I AM NEW ORLEANS."

Twice the Blogs, Only Half the Calories!

Normally, I try to write extremely long and boring blogs so that my millions of readers will be far more likely to fall asleep while courageously attempting to read them.

However, today's post is not about curing insomnia. It's about shameless plugs. So, I will try to be brief and boring, which I am sure will disappoint a lot of people.

Yesterday I posted a new entry for another blog called "Phillies v. Mets" which is located at http://www.mvpdebate.blogspot.com. There are 13 contributing writers altogether so there will be at least a post a day, sometimes two, hence the abysmally clever headline above.

Don't let the title fool you, however. This new blog is not remotely about the Philadelphia Phillies or the New York Mets. It does not cover baseball in any way, shape or form. It was just a catchy name that just so happened to be available.

Also, that last paragraph was a complete and utter lie.

So, if you feel a need to get your daily fill of the Phillies, please come visit. Mets fans are also welcome provided that they take their meds before posting comments.

Thank you.

WTF?!? (The Speculated History of Cussing)

I’ve been pondering one of life’s most interesting questions lately: When did cussing begin?

If you think about it, the first cuss word could not possibly have been considered a cuss word until a group of people (perhaps some sort of majority) deemed it so.

I suppose the logical choice is Adam. “Did you eat the f#^*@!* apple, Eve? Dammit! Well, you might as well pass that bad boy over to me now.”

Who’s to say he was actually cussing? God? I always assumed profanity was a human invention. Damn that free will to Hell.

Maybe it didn’t happen until many, many years later. Perhaps some fed-up and frustrated soul pointed at somebody’s else’s genitalia one day and screamed: “I have invented an unsavory term for that. I call it #@!%, and you know what? That is precisely what you are. A good-for-nothing #@!%. Go stick your #@!% in the fire, you #@!%-weasel!”

At that moment, everybody else in the area (presumably shocked and mortified beyond belief) all agreed that “#@!%” was profane and that nobody decent would ever use it again, unless they hit their hand with a hammer hard, or were unrighteously cut off in traffic by an intoxicated horse cart operator.

Regardless of what actually happened, somebody else heard the word and didn’t think like the rest of the group. Instead, they immediately began working on a gangster screenplay using it as often as humanly possible.

I suppose I could just simply look up the history of profanity, but it’s so much more fun to recklessly speculate.

Here’s the thing about cussing: Such words only contain power when the listener grants them it. Given, I never grew up being subjected to racial epithets or slurs. The worst thing I heard people say to me in that regard is “cracker” or “honkey,” both of which crack me up.

But, I submit to the jury that I had two older brothers who insulted me intensely, creatively and often. Come to think of it, they might have used racial slurs on me because I am almost positive that they called me every conceivable name in THE BOOK. (Incidentally, I’d like to see this mystery BOOK some day to verify that statement.)

So, of course the words got under my skin from time to time, but that just made me realize that I had the power to verbally fight back with even meaner and more profane language. And, really, isn’t that what matters?

I have to admit I am quite impressed that humanity has such a fine variety of profanity, but most of us prefer to use the same old words as often as possible.

I read somewhere once that the average educated person (whatever that means) uses typically anywhere between 12,000 and 20,000 words (which means George W. Bush knows about 152, including nu-ca-lar). Shakespeare, one of the best English wordsmiths ever, used more than 30,000 in his body of written works.

Anyway, that number might sound impressive to you, but it simply depresses me because, according to the Global Language Monitor (www.languagemonitor.com) there are just over a million English words altogether. That translates to most of us using only 3% of our cultural lexicon. Let me repeat that: 3%!

Basically, we as a society, do not live up to our verbal potential. That’s like making an annual salary of $100,000 but choosing only to spend $3,000 of it. Who can live on that $@%#!

However, whenever we add profanity to our dialog it is akin to sprinkling spice on your cooking confections or glopping on the gooey syrup that coats the ice cream and then magically transforms into a hardened shell of crunchy chocolate.

With that said, I still try to curtail my public cussing whenever possible. It’s kind of like smoking. OK. I get it. You’re addicted. Fine. Puff on the cancer stick that smells like burning corpses all you want — just don’t do it in my face or in the pre-designated “No Smoking” area.

Incidentally, society has unspoken “No Cussing” areas, as well: churches, libraries, grade schools, daycare centers, family-oriented places, sporting events, bars, prisons, etc.

If you know your foul language offends somebody, then you need not go out of your way to make somebody else uncomfortable or miserable.

Unless they legitimately piss you the #%@! off. Then, have a %@!*ing field day.

Sometimes, profanity is absolutely necessary. One of my favorite films of all time is The Big Lebowski, which contains more profanity than you can shake a $#@!ing $#@% at, but it fits the tone of the story and I don't think the movie would work without it. The profanity in that film is truly inspired and never fails to make me appreciate the English language and all of its complex $#@%ing intricacies.

Of course, if profanity offends you, then I can’t imagine you’d enjoy such a poignant film. I can’t imagine why you are reading this drivel before you, either. But I can offer a simple suggestion that might help you cope with our uncouth and obscene society: Just $#@%ing chill out. Don’t take every little $#!@ing thing so $#@!ing seriously.

Or, if that doesn’t work, go to www.nocussing.com. There is actually a bonafide “No Cussing Club” online and its membership (as of now) is over 20,000 strong worldwide and growing.



All I can say to that is $#@% me!

A Dissertation on the Deities of the Diamond #2

Part Two

(See previous blog entry for Part One.)

Just to show you how extremely odd it is that the Diamondbacks kick ass and take names so ferociously whenever I spectate live, consider some of the following harrowing statistics from the team’s first 61 games (or, approximately one-third of the regular season).

There are only two .300 batters on the team. Justin Upton is having a breakout year hitting (.317) and utility player Ryan Roberts is solid with a .313 average, but he has only had 80 at bats. So, it’s highly likely he won’t last the whole season batting at that level. That means one All-Star caliber hitter. One.

Now, let me show you some of the other anemic averages from the team:

Conor Jackson .182
Chris Young .184
Chad Tracy .203
Eric Byrnes .215
Chris Snyder .223

All men have started for the team numerous times this year, incidentally.

On the plus side, Justin Upton and Mark Reynolds are clearing the fences consistently, having hit 12 and 15 home runs respectively. That’s quite impressive, but also inadvertently depressing. That means the pair have hit 27 of the team’s 58 homers. The rest of the entire team has only hit a meager 31. Contrast that to, say, the Philadelphia Phillies who have almost three times that number and you can see that Arizona won't be winning too many games with their bats.

Now, let’s discuss the pitching side of the equation. Dan Haren has been the main man this year, throwing for 85 innings over 12 games with an astounding ERA of 2.33! He has 83 strikeouts and only eleven walks. Unfortunately, a lack of run support on the days he starts has lead to a 4-4 record, which is so much less than he deserves.

Unfortunately, the Earned Run Averages just climb higher and higher as you scrutinize the rest of the team. Brandon Webb boasts the worst at 21.60! In his defense, he played injured early on and is still recovering. Not too far above him are Tom Gordon and Bobby Korecky, each with a whopping 13.50!

Of course, I realize every team has one or two bad apples with horrendous ERAs early in the year, but consider that the team has eight additional pitchers with an ERA over 5.0 and you can start understanding why Arizona is not winning too many games on the mound, either. They should feel fortunate to be winning 43% of the time.

Naturally, that means that 57% of the time, the D-Backs lose. Unfortunately, they are prone to losing by a massive margin. The team has given up five or more runs 30 times this year (out of 61 games). That’s almost exactly half the time! Not only does the team seem allergic to scoring runs, they appear philosophically opposed to preventing the other team from scoring often.

Yet, when I watch the Diamondbacks live, they have outscored their opponents 14 to 1 in three games!

More importantly, during the first 26 2/3 (of 27 innings) of those games, the visitors scored zilch. It wasn’t until the Giants had two outs and two strikes in the ninth that a player scored from third thanks to Chad Qualls’ wild pitch. So, the run WASN’T EVEN EARNED!

On top of that, it’s my own damn fault because I kept saying “I can’t believe they’ve pitched 26 straight scoreless innings for me and are about to finish number 27! What are the freakin' odds of that?”

The Baseball Gods overheard this and smote me heartily.

Despite my momentary lapse of reason, let’s break down the facts. Three games. No earned runs. Three wins. Inexplicably, they have played like a veritable Diamond Dynasty whenever I am in the stands.

One last note: I have even watched three different pitchers with a combined W-L record of 9-15 during those games. And, that record would drop to 6-15 if you didn’t count the three victories that occurred in my presence.

It is absolutely mind-boggling that the D-Backs can play so much above their potential when I just so happen to be there. How can I not accept this as irrefutable proof that the Baseball Gods exist? How can I not whole-heartedly believe that I completely control the destiny of the Arizona Diamondbacks (but only about once a month)?

Hmmmm.

Perhaps I should reconsider buying season tickets to explore this theory further.

Of course, there is always the danger of buying too many carrots (see previous entry). Surely, I would eventually anger the Deities of the Diamond with my greediness and then I'd have to resort to wearing my hat backwards and upside down, which only works when I watch every other pitch and shout "O' Mighty Baseball Gods Be Praised!" in-between.

A Dissertation on the Deities of the Diamond #1

Part One

I once interviewed a man who played AAA minor league baseball. He relayed to me the following story that he swore was 100% true. However, first I would like to warn anybody who suffers from lachanophobia (the fear of vegetables) to skip the next five paragraphs as you will possibly find the content of them to be absolutely terrifying.

A while back, when this gentleman played under the guidance of legendary manager Earl Weaver, he found himself mired in a state of stagnation inside the batter's box. So, before a game in Elmira, NY, the slumping slugger decided to head to the grocery store and buy his usual purchase of tobacco. Then, he abruptly changed his routine by buying a carrot, as well. He reasoned that carrots are purportedly good for eyesight, so eating one could not hurt him at that point.

This pleased the Mighty Gods of Baseball as he was rewarded with a base hit later that afternoon. The next day he decided to buy tobacco and two more carrots. Naturally, he was rewarded with two hits that night.

Like any logical person would, he repeated the process again but bought three carrots. Of course, he got three hits that night. Then he really pushed the envelope and bought four carrots the next day. Not surprisingly, he tallied another four hits.

Unfortunately, he grew too greedy at that point and opted to buy five carrots. This displeased the fickle Gods of Baseball greatly who decreed that he would go 0 for 4 that evening.

To this day, the man is wholly convinced that he pushed his luck a little too far. (At least he still enjoys eating carrots on a daily basis.)

The notion that his superstitious behavior could influence his performance in the batter's box is absolutely ridiculous. After all, any baseball fan knows that the players have no control over the outcome of a game. Instead, the fans do.

Tell me if this situation sounds a tad bit familiar. You're watching a game and the phone rings. You leave the room to answer it and your team suddenly scores a run to take a lead. Conclusion: they scored because I wasn’t watching during that play.

Or, you're watching a game with your favorite pitcher on the mound and he’s gone seven and two-thirds inning without giving up a hit. You say out loud: “I can’t believe he’s going for a no-hitter.” On the next pitch, the opponents’ .214-hitting shortstop (who has been relegated permanently to the eighth spot in the lineup) bloops a single up the middle. Deflated, you slump back in the chair, cursing your judgment to dare utter the words “no hitter” causing the Gods of Baseball to inevitably extract their swift brand of vengeance.

And they always do! The Omnipotent Ones have no mercy when it comes to fans, except for those who root for the Yankees. Even the Baseball Gods are a little afraid of George Steinbrenner.

Now, let me play Devil's Advocate for a moment. I understand there are people out there in the world, armed with psychology degrees, who claim that fans invent the idea that their actions can control a game and to counter the helplessness and frustration that accompanies being a bystander.

You feel like a fly caught in a spider's web as you watch your team slowly unravel in the bottom of the ninth. First, your team's closer gives up a walk. Then, a single. Then, another damn single. Now, the other team is looking at bases loaded with no outs and your team is only up by one run.

You can’t coach the team. You can’t bat or field for them. All you can do is perform a desperate superstitious ritual that you hope will parlay the favor of these so-called Deities of the Diamond back to your team’s side.

Sometimes that means wearing your baseball hat backwards, or upside down, or my favorite: upside down and backwards. Sometimes it means not watching a certain play; other times it means not leaving the room during a play no matter how full your bladder feels and how at-risk you are for developing a urinary tract infection.

Sometimes the Almighty Spirits can be influenced by a fan yelling as loud as humanly possible, even if it deafens small children nearby, or the Divine Ones may prefer that you remain silent so as to not jinx a special game.

Admittedly, the notion seems just a tiny bit crazy, and yet, almost every avid fan believes it at one time or another.

Case in point: I attended an Arizona Diamondbacks’ game on Thursday (June 11) and even someone as stunningly intelligent and mentally stable as I started to question the notion.

First, let me point out that the team possesses a 26-35 record as of this writing. I am completely cognizant of the fact that there are only two worse teams in MLB this year: the Kansas City Royals and the Washington Nationals. That’s lofty company, to be sure.

However, whenever I have watched the Diamondbacks live in their Phoenix stadium this year, they have been virtual maestros of the mound, performing almost flawlessly every time. In fact, they are unbeatable when I am in the house.

Of course, I’ve only been to three games, but take a look at the following results:

Diamondbacks 2 Rockies 0
Diamondbacks 10 Cubs 0
Diamondbacks 2 Giants 1*

(*It should have been zero, but I'll explain how I blew that from happening later.)

I know... I KNOW the thought that I possess strange super powers to help spur my favorite ballclub to inexplicable victory is completely irrational. I know this.

Yet, as I watched the game, a feeling nagged at me: it was completely against the odds that a team THAT bad could play SO good in my presence. Against my better judgment, I started to believe in the existence of the Gods of Baseball... again.

Then, my mind cleverly deduced exactly why: It’s all science’s fault. You see, I had remembered something I studied back in college.

In experimental research, the term observer effect (also called the Hawthorne effect) refers to changes that the act of observing will make on the phenomenon being observed.

Hmmmm.

I had arrived at Thursday’s game simply hoping to go 3 and 0 at the ballpark for the year and nothing else. I wasn’t trying to appease the Baseball Gods. Heck, I even joked that the Diamondback players felt a need to impress me every time I showed up. But, as each “zero” popped up on the scoreboard after the visiting team batted unsuccessfully, I realized that no opposing ballclub had scored a run in my presence for almost three full games.

The odds of such a thing happening are so remote that you are more likely to find Bigfoot and the Abominable Snowman doing the Macarena on Wrigley Field as the overhead clouds turn magically into pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers.

So, as the top of the ninth inning approached the other day, I posed the question to myself: Could I actually be Arizona’s lucky charm?

TO BE CONTINUED...

(Part Two will be posted tomorrow.)

Zombie Mania!

Sometimes I think pop culture has popped its cork, and it turns out there was nothing of substance inside.

When you break down all of the cookie cutter plots that endlessly repeat themselves in books, plays, TV shows, movies and even pop music, there really is nothing new under the sun. (Kind of like my writing, which just completely stole from Shakespeare.)

Lack of originality is not necessarily a bad thing, though, because it doesn’t take much to jump start a tired old idea and make it feel fresh. All you have to do is add a new element to the mix and something you have seen a thousand times before will feel refreshing and even poignant.

Let me offer you a recent and obvious example of this phenomenon: Star Trek. The once-successful movie franchise had unceremoniously run its course after ten feature films and five different dramatic series that ran for more than 30 years on the air. Then, J.J. Abrams brilliantly opted to take the franchise where it had never gone before: back to before the beginning. To nobody's surprise, it’s wildly successful again.

With that in mind, I’d like to offer up a new theory of mine that any concept, no matter how overused and beaten to death, can be made utterly awesome simply by adding a zombie element to it. After all, who cannot completely relate to the plight of the zombie?

Now, let's apply my theory to the test.

I read comics as a kid and thought they were the greatest concept of all time. Why? Because humanity is overrated. Sure, it’s great having opposable thumbs. And, when you think about it, being able to transmit our thoughts and convey our emotions to each other through verbal and written communication is impressive. (There are literally thousands of human languages used on Earth and I am only wasting the potential of one of them at this moment.)

All that may seem yippy skippy, but we share the Earth with creatures that are stupider than petrified wood yet are still capable of some of the most amazing things imaginable.

Birds seem to serve little purpose on this planet other than to carry disease and swoop randomly in front of fast moving vehicles, but they can fly dammit! Even penguins boggle the mind. Sure, they were shafted in the flight department, but they can jump 6 feet high in the air without the use of $500 Air Jordans!

Even annoying little ants can do things humans cannot even dream of: lift 20 times their own body weight. That is the equivalent of me lifting two tons. Good God that would be cool.

And yet, Ant-Man is still the lamest superhero ever. Go figure.



My point is that even the smartest human being would give up billions of brain cells in order to be a comic book superhero capable of running at the speed of sound, crawling up walls, flying to the moon or lifting a mountain. When you think about it, there’s not much you can do to make the superhero concept any cooler (other than add skin-tight, revealing spandex costumes, of course).

However, the classic comic book characters have not aged gracefully. DC’s top two, Superman and Batman, can trace their beginnings back to the late 1930s. Marvel’s perennial favorite, Spider-Man, is closing in on his 50th birthday. Those three characters alone have saved the planet approximately 20,000 times, not to mention they have been repeatedly unmasked, crippled, beaten to a bloody pulp, killed, replaced, cloned and rebooted repeatedly throughout the last half century or so.

Let's face it. The concept of superheroes had grown quite stale... until something extraordinary happened.

A few years ago, some genius at Marvel Comics found a way to inject pure poetical splendor into those colorful pages of art buried beneath distracting dialog boxes. He decided to kill all of the superheroes and turn them into undead creatures of the night.

It’s a drastic solution, grant you, but damn effective and it managed to catch the interest of the little kid buried deep down inside my long-hardened outer shell of cynicism.

Zombie superheroes! What a good idea. No, not just good. It was one of the best ideas ever in the history of mankind, placing it in the Top Five of All-Time along with: Recreational Sex, Music, Peanut Butter and Painkillers.

It fills me with absolute certainty that any pop culture concept can be revived to new levels of ridiculous popularity simply by adding a zombie element to it. Perhaps some timeworn old TV shows should be revived in this fashion: All in the Cemetery, The A Positive-Team, Gilligan’s Island of the Dead and I Love Lucy’s... Brains.

Remember when The Brady Bunch introduced annoying little Cousin Oliver in a futile attempt to amp up the cute factor? Not only did the show jump the shark, it was shot with an uzi and served in a tequila and lime juice sauce.

Oliver completely ruined a show that was once renowned for its compelling drama and inspired intelligence. Don’t laugh. That show was ahead of its time. Do you recall when Bobby dreamed he was a partner of Jesse James and his whole family was subsequently murdered in cold blood? You don’t see that crazy $@*! happen on 7th Heaven or The O.C.

Anyway, Oliver ended up killing the show in his own cold-blooded fashion. But, imagine if you could go back in time and tell the writers to add Oliver to the mix, only this time, make him a relentless zombie whose only ungodly desire was to kill everybody on the show and eat their fleshy remains?

I have no doubt The Bloody Bunch would still be airing new episodes to this day if that had happened. Sam the Butcher would be a cult hero by now, and Jan would have exacted her revenge on Marsha by serving her to Ollie in a tequila and lime juice sauce.

I really do think I’m on to something. Just think of this: have you ever tried watching golf? Tiger Woods is great and blah, blah, blah, zzzzzzzz. Now, consider watching those sharply-dressed gentlemen chip in a birdie while zombies crawl out of the bunker.

I’m just saying consider it.

The Rise of STDs!

There is something that has been bothering me lately... the rise of STDs.

I’m not talking about sexually transmitted diseases (they could be rising too for all I know, but that isn’t my particular area of expertise).

I’m referring to Straight-To-DVD (STD) movies.

Traditionally, low budget (read: tragically bad) films with no hopes of garnering any box office bucks are typically released straight to the streets in an effort to recoup the budget more rapidly.

Such releases are mostly referred to as Straight-To-Videos, but since only about 14 people still utilize VCRs to watch rental releases, I think that the phrase can be justly labeled an anachronism.

Now, for the record, I’m not a movie star nor have I ever been one (to my knowledge), but that doesn’t mean I’m not disheartened to see the once-Hollywood-elite desperately clutch fruitlessly for a second round of fleeting fame by appearing in films so odd that they should be labeled DIRJST films, or Did-I-Really-Just-See-That?

I’ll give you an example. Not too long ago there was a movie released Straight-To-DVD called Abominable, which starred Lance Henricksen and Dee Wallace Stone. Both thespians just so happened to be in different blockbuster alien films in the 1980s (albeit, those films were polar opposites in terms of tone): Aliens and E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial.

I am not a huge fan of either film (they haven’t aged well and I always felt Aliens would be better if the alien creatures were actually misunderstood pacifists, and E.T. would be much improved if the alien turned out to be an unstoppable juggernaut hell-bent on conquering Earth). Still, the movies made beau coup bucks so Lance and Dee were A-listers once upon a time.

Less than 30 years later, the two headliners of such bonafide classics are no longer at the top of their game, but they have enough star power in their tanks to team up and fight the most famous alien of all-time: Bigfoot.

The movie’s actual tagline is: “Some Things Are Better Left Unfound.” (How can you not love the irony of that one?)

When you combine that with a name like Abominable, well, you have no choice but to reasonably anticipate the best cinematic experience of all time.

It could just be me, but when I hear the word “abominable” I tend to immediately follow it with “snowman.” I have never heard people say the phrase “abominable Bigfoot” so the title is kind of misleading. Bastard marketers!

Now, while I whole-heartedly support films about big hairy monsters shredding up, and then digesting, teenagers out in the middle of the woods, I am nevertheless gravely concerned that studios are mass churning STDs in a greedy attempt to make copious amounts of money with no regard WHATSOEVER to the quality of the final product.

Absolutely shocking.

Hopefully we can still expect classics of Abominable’s caliber in the future, but if the studios keep overproducing these Straight-To-DVDs, won’t the end result inevitably be water-downed B-movies that fail to make the grade?

For shame. For shame.