September 2007 Archives

I have no idea why Netflix recommended the 1989 film Tetsuo: The Iron Man and I don't entirely know how to feel about it. I reminded me a lot of Cronenberg if Cronenberg were Japanese.

Rather than explain what the movie is about, I present you with this list of notes I took while watching the film:

• girl squeezes tit till it explodes


• awesome industrial music


• protagonist looks like every nerdy/conservative Japanese male in anime, ever


• good stop motion scenes, some similar to Amelie


• Giger-esque strap-on


• why is everyone always sweaty?


• drill penis/ "sewage pipe"


• cats and fish should not be fused to coffee cans


• when you come back from the dead the Crow does your eye makeup

That's probably enough since the film itself is only 67 minutes long.

I should tell you now, I have not gone all Sarah Michelle Gellar nor Japotard on you (when someone co-opts culture not their own with fanatic zeal, they are a Culturetard with Japotard and Italotard being very specific and Eurotard being more general). I don't pursue the craziest of other cultures in an effort to seem edgy or hip or even to shock people. I can do that on my own without the help. I do, however, have a deep abiding love of art. Even art I don't "get." And, kids, I only kinda get this movie. At least it made more sense to me than Eraserhead did.

So, I recommend it to those of you that are Japotards, Eraserhead fans, industrial music fans, or just want to see an interesting and incredibly well filmed (as far as cinematography goes) movie (xjuggernaughtx, you should probably check it out), then check out Tetsuo: The Iron Man. If anything in my list above freaked you out, you probably aren't friends with me or are, at this moment, reconsidering our friendship ;)

At what point does having a crush on a fictional character become creepy? I understand that the actress, while attractive, is likely nothing like the character she portrays. But, does there come a time when I should seek professional help? Honestly, I'm starting to get worried.

How many of you have had a crush on a fictional character?

Why do I sometimes do the things I do? Is it because of misinformation? Are nefarious forces at work that you or I can't perceive with our mundane sense? Is there any reason to my actions at all?

In short, yes. I do a great many of these things because I love you. I love you so much it hurts and, out of that love, comes a deep, abiding urge to protect you from the wrongs in this world. To be your first and last line of defense against those evils to which you are otherwise laid bare. Because I do love you and because someone needs to protect you.

The evil I protect you from today is Budweiser's latest entrance to the adult beverage market: the Budweiser Chelada. Now, it was news to me that the chelada is hardly a new beverage. In fact, as Wikipedia was so kind to point out, an actual chelada sounds pretty Goddamn delicious: fill salt-rimmed glass with ice, add juice of one or two limes, add dark Mexican beer, and enjoy. What's not to love about that? It's like a margarita, but less punishing. Why, then, did Bud have to go and fuck it up?

The outside of the can says it all: "Budweiser and Clamato." Clamato? What the hell? How did we go from "salt and limes" to "tomatoes and clams?" Even more disturbing is the can's promise that this is, in fact, "the perfect combination!" No shit? Far be it from me to judge, but it seems like tomato juice, clams, and crappy beer is about as far from "the perfect combination" as you can get without affronting God and Ganesha.

But, what the hell? I love you and the flavor combination does sound intriguing enough that you might try it. So, I crack the can and sniff (because that is a trait common amongst males in my family), in order to determine whether the substance has gone bad. Despite the "Born On" date, I still don't trust it. So, I take a whiff and am greeted with a sort of odd combination of water, beer sweat squeezed from a bartop cocktail napkin, and loneliness. Yup! That's Budweiser.

But, I'm not drinking this crap without first seeing it. I bust out one of the pint glasses I stole and fill it. Words cannot describe the horror so, instead, I present you with this:

Things that are wrong with that picture:

1. I am holding the glass up to the light, but you cannot see through it.


2. The fluid holds little resemblance to either of the base fluids it is made of.

Oh my Christ, what have I gotten myself into? I mean, I love you. I really do. But this seems a bit far. Like Santa leaving coal in your stocking only to beat you senseless with it.

Wary of my prey, I engaged it in a stare-down. It must know I am stronger and, thus, the victor in this battle:

Due almost entirely to my incredible sideburns, the Chelada backed down and I raised the glass, firing off a short prayer to my colon hoping my sudden faith would halt it evulsing my entire GI tract. Bottoms up? And...

Seconds pass in an eternity of silence...

Nothing. It just tastes like Budweiser, which is kind of a let down. I smell the drink again, wait, then take another sip assuming some critical mass need accumulate before catalyzing a chain reaction of "flavor bursts." Sadly, nothing it me. I put the pint down on the counter, dejected, and pick up the can to see if I needed to shake it or add my own clams or something.

And then it hits me.

Loved one, the evil of the Chelada is perhaps the most evil kind of evil. It is subtle. It sneaks up on you. You sip it and encounter almost nothing yet as I sit here writing, I can still taste the horrid combination of tomatoes, clams, and shitty hops. The aftertaste of this vile substance is probably one of the most veiled evil things I have known and I can't get it to go away. I've brushed my teeth twice already and every time I burp (which has been several times) it comes right back.

So, please, don't imbibe this foul drink. I did it because I loved you enough to find out. To find out if this was the attack on humanity I suspected. It is. It is that and so much more.

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize in advance, honey. I'm really sorry about the dutch ovens, but I figure it evens out all the times you take me shopping for shoes or whatever.