Archive for October, 2009


Posted in Marvy Movies on October 26, 2009 by butthorn

My desire to blog is not great, lately or now.  I don’t attribute this to anything other than the fact that sometimes writing doesn’t sound like fun.  You know what is fun?  Watching movies and drinking coffee.  You know what else is fun?  Flickchart.  If you spend more time reflecting on your opinions of movies and what you’ve gleaned from watching them than you spend actually watching them (which is no small amount of time in and of itself), and you haven’t looked at Flickchart yet, well, you might as well bid sayonora to your friends and divorce your spouse now and save yourself a lot of unnecessary pain and non-Flickchart-using time, cause you’re gonna be on this website for the rest of your life.  I’ll just leave it at that.  It just occurred to me that my blog production lag kicked in right around the time I discovered Flickchart.  I assure you, this is no coincidence.  I have never encountered a site more attuned to my obsession with movies and lists than Flickchart.  It’s also an excellent timekiller, an attribute I value as I really want these next nine months to whiz by so we can skip past weeks of considerable spousal pain and discomfort and get right to the moment when our child, Flickchart Stover, is born. 

In other news, I am fat.  This seems to stem from a lifetime of eating food.  Seriously, go to the store, buy some food, eat it, and then try not to get fat.  It’s impossible!  Other news I have for you is that our car is being a shitheel again.  We are probably going to have to buy a whole new car.  The 2002 Nissan Sentra is the worst product ever put on this earth.  I really hope someone out there is considering buying one of these horrible cars for whatever reason and then through some act of God manages to see this blog and is then suitably deterred from purchasing it.  My theory on cars is that when you put a key into their ignition and turn it, the car should start.  Unfortunately, my theory on cars differs greatly from that of the makers of the 2002 Nissan Sentra.  Replacing the battery has not helped.  Taking it to a few different mechanics has not helped.  What I have learned from this irritating experience is that buying used cars is for suckers.  Either buy ’em new or buy ’em dirt cheap from some dude, but that middle ground will just break your heart, and soon you have monthly payments going towards a giant paperweight for your lawn.  Used car dealers are unreliable: you heard it here first!  I wish our car had a throat so I could slit it and give it a Colombian necktie, and a family so I could make them watch.  Our 1997 Subaru station wagon with over 200,000 miles on it is an infinitely superior automobile.  It responds to things like keys and gasoline.  We are really not asking a lot of our vehicles here, only that they propel us from place to place.  Oh well, live and learn, or, failing that, bitch fruitlessly about it on the Internet.  On a more positive note, having dealt with the 2002 Nissan Sentra, I can safely say that our impending offspring will have to go to immeasurable lengths to prove itself either as expensive or as disappointing to us as this car has been.  Urinate in my face while I’m trying to change your diaper, Junior!  Thoroughly coat my favorite sweatshirt in fetid, milky barf!  Deplete my bank account and withhold gratitude!  Conjure missives the likes of which parenthood has yet to comprehend, but the fact remains, Junior, that you are not, and could never hope to be, the 2002 Nissan Sentra, and for that simple fact alone, my precious angel, Daddy loves you very much already. 

This past Sunday my wife went to the always-excellent Big G’s to meet up with friends for unreasonably sized omelets, so that afforded me some solitary mannish time to squander upon such unproductive pursuits as pouring inexpertly brewed coffee down my esophagus and firing up a few in no way acclaimed motion pictures on my Xbox, which is equipped with Netflix instant viewing, my new favorite thing in the world other than Flickchart, The Statler Brothers, and defecating.  There’s nothing like having the house to yourself, a rare circumstance I will no doubt be cherishing even further and less frequently in the near future, so I made sure to queue up the seediest and least-competently produced gems available to me, preferably something rife with fumblingly conveyed lesbianism.  As such, my first choice was 1970’s “Just the Two of Us”. 

just the two

“Just the Two of Us” (which also goes by the far more ridiculous and thus way better title of “The Dark Side of Tomorrow”) turned out to be a fairly coherent and relatively sensitive look at the difficulties and insecurities inherent in being a lesbian in late-sixties-era suburbia, with passable acting, tastefully shot love scenes, and a clear desire to frame its put-upon protagonists as well as the issue of homosexuality in general in an open-minded and understanding light.  Imagine my disappointment. 


Easily the best “hauntingly sensitive love story” you’ll see this year, the film focuses on Denise (the hovering brunette) and Adria (the prone blonde).  Both are housewives who spend most of their time lying around in sparsely if modly furnished homes, provided to them by husbands who are always either working or telling their wives to stop bitching at them for working all the time.  They’re way too busy funding flourescent orange ottomans and ornate aspic molds to be able to blow a load or two into their pert and willing wives.  So one thing leads to another, and soon enough Denise and Adria are engaging in such sapphic pastimes as ordering fruit salads at local cafes, taking a spin on a merry-go-round, and finally, riding horses while holding hands, which is not only cloying but unsafe at best. 

Anyway, we do get some boobs but it’s nothing to write home about, which is too bad since I was really looking forward to writing up a detailed description of the softcore lesbian porn I’d been watching in my wife’s absence and mailing a hard copy to my folks.  It’s all very tenderly done.  The situation starts to get out of hand when it becomes apparent that, while Denise seems to be coming to terms with both the fact that she may be a full-on lesbian and legitimately in love with her newfound companion, Adria is just experimenting and would like to be free to continue cavorting with weiner-owners as well, and not necessarily her husband.  It gets awkward, a lot of people get hurt, and dagnabbit if I didn’t get into the whole thing.  I really wanted it to work out for these crazy kids.  The two leads (particular Elizabeth Plumb, whose only other credit according to IMDb is something called “The Psycho Lover”, as Denise) are adequate enough, the cheap sets are a brand of late-60’s faux chic that never fails to appeal to me, there’s a couple of ingratiatingly dippy hippie tunes, and best of all it’s only 74 minutes long.  Neither lesbianism nor exploitation are done a lasting disservice by “Just the Two of Us”. 

Next on the agenda, in an ongoing and thus far unsuccessful quest for lurid, ineptly lensed, objectifying entertainment, I fired up the 1982 classic “Butterfly”, starring your favorite actress and mine, Pia Zadora.


A inarguable trailblazer in the redneck incest thriller genre, “Butterfly”, much like “Just the Two of Us” before it, surprised me by engaging me in an at least passingly unironic fashion from start to finish.  Better still, it didn’t skimp quite so much on the boobs and butts, and at no point did it attempt to make a statement, other than “Look, Pia’s naked again!” 

pia truck

In a nutshell, “Butterfly” is the story of a nymphette who comes back to her hometown and starts hitting on every male that crosses her path, including her estranged dad, played by Stacy “Mike Hammer” Keach.  Being a backwoods type of feller, Keach feels some unfortunate urges, but also being an upstanding, churchgoing man, he resolves to resist her overt passes and tendency to sashay about the cabin in various stages of undress and reclaim his role as the sorely needed father figure in her thus far tragic life.


As you can see, all does not go according to plan.  Give the guy a break!  It’s Pia Zadora!  What are you gonna do, not hump her in a cave? 

Anyway, I’m not gonna go into the details, more out of an inability to follow the needlessly convoluted plot than out of concern for spoiling a film that you’re most likely not going to bother watching, but it turns out they’re not really father and daughter after all, so in the end the masterminds behind “Butterfly” get to have their graphic incest cake and eat it too.  As an added treat, we have Orson Welles, finally obliterating the very last ounce of acclaim and goodwill he garnered from “Citizen Kane” as an ornery judge who alternately denounces and drools over Pia’s sultry lawbreaking. 

orson n pia

I have a newfound appreciation for Orson Welles, thanks to the Dean Martin Variety Hour DVDs my wife got us for our recent anniversary.  Listening to him speak, it’s hard not to imagine that Kelsey Grammar cribbed a fair amount of his Frasier Crane schtick from Welles.  Here, watch him regale you with the story behind and the content of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” and try not to enlist. 

I also watched “Phantasm”, “The Poseidon Adventure”, and the original Terry O’Quinn version of “The Stepfather”, but they were all reasonably well-made and as such aren’t worth commenting upon.  Anyway, it was nice to take a day and just watch a bunch of dumb movies.  I have to go eat two loaves of garlic bread now to make them go away because I didn’t count on the smell of the garlic ruining the life of my spouse, whose pregnancy has endowed her with upsetting but not uninteresting super-smell powers, an ability that unfortunately will not help her out a whole lot after I’ve eaten the garlic bread either, if my digestive history is any indication.  Oh well, goodnight ladies and germs!


Posted in It's Alive! on October 10, 2009 by butthorn

I had sex with my wife and it resulted in an impending and significant financial burden!  Son of a bitch! 

It’s true, my wife and I are having a baby!  I know, I know, we’re not special.  Lots of people have had babies.  I mean, look around at all the babies.  Everyone is pretty good proof that people have babies sometimes.  To us, however, it feels like we’re the first couple ever to embark on this tender journey of pooping and destitution, and to say the least we’re equal parts thrilled and shell-shocked. 

This baby will be invading my personal space sometime in late May, if all goes according to “plan”.  Not long ago, news such as this would have destroyed me emotionally.  I would have run screaming into the woods.  Once there, I would have sat down on the least wet stump I could find (after carefully inspecting it for silverfish) and cried, keening and blubbering long into the night.  Then I would have started feverishly looking around for the checkerberry plant (gaultheria procumbens), because it’s the only plant I know of that you can eat in the wild.  It smells like gum, and tastes like gum mixed with a bad-tasting plant.  From there, it’s hard to say what I would have done next.  The plan never extended beyond identifying and masticating checkerberry. 

But it was time to procreate or get off the pot.  Actually, from what I understand it’s best to get off the pot and then procreate.  Toilet procreation seems unsanitary and hard.  That’s a little joke, you can laugh at it or not laugh at it.  The ball’s in your court on that one.  Anyway, I’d say these days I’m about 44% ready for a child, and that’s way more ready than I’ve ever been in the past.  I think it’ll be fun to see what it does, what it thinks is funny, whether or not I stop calling it “it” once its sex has been established.  There are books I should probably be reading that purport to tell me how to deal with my new child and what to expect in general but frankly I’d rather snap my own neck than look at any of that stuff.  Besides, I already know many things about babies. 


1) Do not drop the baby on the floor. 

2) Do not put the baby in the stove.

3) Do not allow the baby to operate a motor vehicle, no matter how much it cries.

4) Do not put the baby in a “Perfect Plex”.

5) Do not throw the baby at people you don’t like.

6) Do not get the baby a tattoo.  He may think “Handy Manny” looks badass on his bicep right now, but it’s not gonna do them any favors later on when they’re trying to get laid. 

7) Do not lie down next to the baby and begin screaming, flailing, and shitting your pants to “see how it likes it”. 

8 ) Do not (or try not to) vomit directly onto the baby’s crotch upon unsealing its dung-encumbered diaper for the first time. 

9) Do not call the baby unkind names.  If you must attack your baby with words, create cuter substitutions for the usual vulgarity.  I plan on gently lambasting my child with the terms “chicken dinner” and “steak sandwich”.  For example: “What I paid for these diapers could have funded a bargain-priced Wii game, ya little chicken dinner!” or “You’ve ruined my life, you fucking steak sandwich!”

10) Do not make your baby go to a psychiatrist, no matter how messed up they seem. 

11) Introduce your baby to the work of Bob Newhart at an early age, that they might be more fully indoctrinated into the subtle nuances of his style of humor. 

12) If you and the baby are indoors and the house suddenly catches on fire, do not defenestrate the baby. 

13) Do not abandon the baby on someone’s doorstep with a saccharine note attached to his onesie.  That’s hokey.

14) Do not allow the baby access to your Netflix queue. 

15) Do not “pants” the baby in the middle of the mall and encourage bystanders to laugh and point.

16) Do not try to force episodes of “Arrested Development” on the baby.  If it’s meant to be, the baby will discover and learn to enjoy this fine program on its own.  The more you pressure it, the more it will resent the show on the basis of your badgering alone, however well-meaning you may be.  Just give it time. 

17) Ditto for “The Wire”. 

18) If your fantasy football team loses, do not defenestrate the baby.

19) Set a good example for your baby by behaving in a calm and respectful manner at all times, being careful not to use coarse language and to always display an unselfish and empathetic attitude.  Plus don’t beat your wife with the baby. 

20) If your baby disrupts your slumber with loud crying, don’t call the police on them. 

21) Do not “punk” your baby.

22)  When reading aloud to your baby, avoid the works of Joyce Carol Oates.  Babies HATE Joyce Carol Oates.  Nope, not even “We Were the Mulvaneys”.

23) Do not let your mom teach your baby to call Target “Tar-jay”, like it’s a fancy French store.  She didn’t invent that joke.  Stop letting her think that she did.

24) Do not teach your baby to share.  There’s no money in it.

25) Do not throw the baby out with the bathwater.  Drain the tub as you normally would, then put the baby up for adoption.

26) Do not extinguish cigarettes on your baby’s fontanelle.  Buy an ashtray!  Jesus!

27) Do not try to get your baby interested in the stuff that used to be on TV when you were a kid.  It will only hurt your feelings when your baby inevitably fails to exhibit the same enthusiasm for “Scarecrow and Mrs. King” that you once held. 

28) I know you don’t like doing it yourself, but do not make the baby mow the lawn.  It won’t do a good job.  Your lawn looks bad, you look bad.  It’s just a bad scene all around.  There’s usually a neighborhood kid that’s looking to make a few bucks.  Look around for handmade notices tacked in the entryway of your local store.  Honestly, you’re better off in the end just leaving the baby out of it.

29) Do not dropkick the baby into a yawning crevasse. 

30) Do not make your baby pay rent.  It breeds contempt. 

See?  I got babies down.  Whatever the case, it’s sure to be an alternately rewarding and horrifying ride, and I’m looking forward to the end result.  Because right now my wife is barfing into the toilet every two seconds and making me drive out into the night to purchase pickles, peaches, and chocolate milk.  So for both of our sakes, pray to whoever you might pray to that the next nine months go by quickly, as my wife isn’t big on puking and I’m not a fan of running errands. 

Well, I’m off to enjoy a fitful night’s sleep interspersed with vivid dreams of babies either electrocuting themselves or tearfully confronting me about why I didn’t try harder in school so I could get a better job that would afford them cooler toys, better food, and more stylish clothing.  Night!