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The Rock Star Within

Posted in General, Music, News, Raves on September 28, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

At the age of fifteen I was CRAZY for music. I suppose must of us generally are. Music was (and still is, especially for teens) the most viable way to express one’s self. I wore band shirts and when I got a car, at the keen age of seventeen, I was sure to sticker it up with the groups I loved.

Music, at the time, was changing. I was a little snot nosed punk right smack dab in the middle of the Grunge explosion. Looking back, it wasn’t a bad time to be a kid. We didn’t have the rock and roll rebellion of the early 50’s where for the first time, music became specifically generational. Kids could blare loud, electric guitars and do-wop grooves much to the chagrin of their standards loving parents. We didn’t have the genius of the Beatles.

The nineties seem a lot like the seventies (I suppose, but this is just hypothesizing from someone who was too young to remember anything until the eighties kicked in). On one side of the fence you have heavy rock, on the other disco. In the nineties, we had heavy rock and dance music. Rap was also solidifying itself as a viable thing (which had been going on for years and years, but the mainstream, what with rappers guesting on dance tunes, was finally, fully embracing it).

(“We’re gonna wipe you right out, right out, right out…” Oh yeah!)

The only thing that mattered to me was intelligent, alternative rock – be it guitar driven or electronic based. You see (just like now), I was somewhat of a cultural snob. Music had to mean something. I could appreciate love songs or weird, pointless abstractions, the songs didn’t have to be meaningful in that they focused on a particular topic, they just had to strike me with a modicum of depth. They had to do something more than the hair metal, dance music, and radio-friendly rap dominating MTV and top 40.

The Cure and Depeche Mode were my lovey stuff, the Pixies, my avant garde, art rock, Ministry, Skinny Puppy, and my absolute favorite, Nine Inch Nails, held down the heavy angle (along with some Marilyn Manson a few years later). Classic rock – Zeppelin and Hendrix mostly – rounded things out.

(One of my favorite albums ever!)

I was an intense kid. My bedroom walls were covered with subversive art pieces and pictures cut from SPIN magazine.

My high school put on a talent show every year. My ninth grade year found me and two brave companions lip syncing along with the Beastie Boys’ Shake Your Rump (ah, Paul’s Boutique – great album) while wearing giant baby diapers and bibs. It was a cute idea and we had enough fun to outweigh the embarrassment of wearing diapers in front of a packed gymnasium.

The next year, I matured (some). I put together a lip synced rendition of Ministry’s Thieves (with those awesome FULL METAL JACKET samples – get up, get on your feet!). My group of eight performers borrowed real instruments from friends and one friend even brought his other friend who brought along a real drum set and played it along in time with the music. It was awesome. We didn’t win, but my music career had officially begun.

(When Ministry went heavy, everything changed. They make rock RAWK!)

Turns out this drummer, Dan, a kid a few years older than me who went to school a city over, liked my lip work. Though I was mouthing words, I played the part to perfection, Loyal Reader. I was a solid, lip syncing frontman. He asked me if I wanted to sing for a band he was putting together.

Being fifteen, and restless, and a theatrical music fanatic, I immediately accepted and threw myself into it head first.

I was great at promotion and setting up gigs and making flyers and supplying vision, but when it came to singing? Meh. I couldn’t really carry a tune. Which wasn’t much of problem – we were a loud, hardcore outfit. Screaming sufficed. I wanted so much more. I wrote lyrics with depth – dark little things that read like beat poetry, but when sung came out like guttural, screeching noise.

Jobee (hi Jobee!), our guitarist had mad skills. At sixteen, he could tear it up, write great songs, and play almost anything by ear. The kid was way talented. He handled lyrics too. And I was proud to sing, um, scream them.

Live, we did our thing. Kids liked us. We played house parties and half empty warehouses and real gigs at little venues (one of the biggest being a show opening for Cannibal Corpse – we were almost Death Metal, but probably a little more thrash what with my scream-o yelping). It was great. We booked studio time (no laptop studios, kiddies – this was in the early nineties and recording on anything other than a four-track was expensive – hell, for struggling high school kids, a four-track was damn expensive). I tried to actually sing, but it sounded horrible, so we went the other way and got me yelling my head off. I’m quite proud of our first demo.

(We opened for these guys! It was an experience.)

We called ourselves Grimoire and we had big dreams. We stuck it out for two or three years, had a few triumphant moments (some incredible shows), but things grew stagnant and the band wanted to move in different directions. They held some practices without me (I was kind of flakey anyhow – I blame girls). They eventually found a new singer, just as I was packing my bags and moving away to Reno for a change of scenery and a different life (drama).

I miss those guys. We had a lot of great times growing up together.

I was nineteen when I got to Reno. I got a job, plunked over the cash for a guitar and amp, and then began to apply everything I learned from Jobee and the rest of my old band buddies by practicing, practicing, and practicing. I recorded lots and lots of crappy songs on a crappy four-track. I learned how to love the guitar. Sometimes it loves me, sometimes not so much. I keep at it.

Though I tried, I could never get a proper band going in Reno. I jammed a little. I posted flyers and hung out at a hip, independent record store, but nothing ever came out of it.

A few years later, I moved back to Southern California. Within a few months I got another band together – this one more in the vein of something like the Smashing Pumpkins with a bit of Nirvana and the Pixies and Fugazi thrown in for good measure. I developed a real kinship with those guys and we still hang out a couple of times a year, rocking our old jams (and new ones) at a house party (a Halloween jam is coming up very soon, yay!). Our band was called BURN and we had something special going, but I was twenty-one and it was time to get life going. Community College, then the eventual transfer to a university, simply took precedence. I had to leave for CSUN.

Which sucks, but that’s life, huh?

One minute you’ve got a scuffed Doc Marten boot poised atop a vibrating monitor, leaning over a frenzied crowd, screaming love songs (aren’t they all?) with passionate fury, the next you’re driving your kid to school and paying down an impossible mortgage.

But you know what? I think making it work with a family, for me that’s two others and we’re like Voltron, is what it’s all about. We form up. We are bound by love. You can’t break us.

(“Cool boots, man!” – Lloyd Christmas, DUMB & DUMBER)

I’ve always been extremely envious of the rock stars who make it. The little rocker inside throws up double devil horns and screams along, but wants more than anything to be up there on stage getting down. What a way to make a living – That’s the way you do it, you get your money for nothing and your chicks for free (thank you, Mr. Knopfler).

But then…

Nothing’s quite as sad as a successful rock star who don’t know how to grow up. Arrested development can be an ugly, ugly thing. But imagine it: you’re seventeen, you hit it big, for the next ten to twenty years nobody ever tells you, “No.” How can you ever lead a normal life? I guess the old adage – be careful what you wish for – is sound.

But then…

Some folks handle it better than others. Look at Bono or someone as cool as Leonard Cohen. No one is as cool as Leonard Cohen. If I could go back and do it right, make deals properly, keep a band together (all of the in-fighting and petty crap you read about within the band structure, all those break-ups, all of that stuff is generally 100% accurate – dysfunctional families fall into disfunction), write something of worth, make enough money to live on for the rest of my life, I would hope to end up as cool as Leonard Cohen. That dude gives rock stars a good name.

Okay, I could go on and on, but I gotta give it a rest. Rock on, Loyal Reader!

(Post up! MDM is on the attack!)

Here’s the man…

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Metal With Melody

Posted in General, Music, News, Raves, Television on September 17, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

My latest obsession is VH1 Classic’s THAT METAL SHOW, in which three, New Yorker Metal Head Journalists and comedians, host a Metal talk show and banter about hard rock trivia. I like the show’s shaggy approach. The hosts are likable guys.

I get about eighty percent of what they’re talking about. I’ve always been a music buff. I like reading Rock Star biographies and books about rock culture. There are some bands I’ve only read about, but haven’t heard. I’m not so familiar with lots of the older Metal – Deep Purple, Saxon, Iron Maiden (though I loved all of their rock-horror Evil Eddie-the-head art), and even Judas Priest (though Breaking the Law managed to work its way into popular culture thanks to Beavis & Butthead). I’m good with Black Sabbath and AC/DC. Same with most of the hair Metal 80s stuff. Same with some of the subgenre stuff – industrial rock, death Metal.

(Ed The Head – Iconic Metal art.)

I don’t dig most of the atonal thrash stuff. Some guitar riffs really stand out, but musically things are focused on being heavy and the vocals suffer. Grunts and growls suffice. Melody is either accidental or perpetrated by true artistry, but not necessary. Most Metal heads don’t care. They lock into a heavy groove and rawk it. I understand, but thanks to those Beatles, the bar has been set. Some Metal just falls short.

Michelle and I have been to a number of hardcore concerts over the years, from when were young romantics in black up until just a couple of years ago. We’ve seen everything from Gwar to Marilyn Manson to Korn. We even saw Blue Oyster Cult (at a fair ground no less).

(Gwar – The Scumdogs of The Universe sound as good as they look!)

At some of these concerts (when we were young), we got pretty physical – shoved up against the stage, chaos erupting behind us in an explosion of mosh pits and leaning masses. Sweat mingles. Bruises develop. It was an exhilarating time, Loyal Reader.

We don’t go to live music much as of late. The last few shows we caught were mellow affairs. Martini bar type settings with table seating and say…I don’t know…someone like Matthew Sweet (we saw him in San Francisco at The Boom-Boom Room) rocking to the politely drinking room of thirty-something hipsters. A very different vibe, huh?

I prefer the grit and grime of a relentless punk show, but I’m too old for that stuff. Those bruises don’t heal so fast. I can’t shake off an accidental boot to the head like I used to.

But we have THAT METAL SHOW. We can relive our fiery youths through spirited conversation with the rockers who helped make it all possible. It’s interesting, it fuels my pop trivia fire. It’s cathartic.

Eddie Trunk, Jim Florentine, and Don Jamieson, are well-versed in the ways of Metal. Their inner fourteen-year-olds are strong. More importantly, they can carry a show. They make Metal sing.

I’m gonna watch tonight’s new episode right now…

Here’s Steven Adler on an earlier episode…

Hey Look! I’m An E-book! (Get With It, Humanoids!)

Posted in Books, General, News, Raves on September 15, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

You know, Loyal Reader, I’ve published five books. Five! And when each release came out I did a real strong promotional push. I posted all over social media and banged my drum as loud as I could.

I still have swag from each release – postcards, Hershey Nugget chocolates with tiny book covers printed on them, magnets, and I still bring them to every convention. And then at the conventions I read, and smile, and meet interesting folks, and (hopefully) sell some books (and buy some books too).

In all this time of promo-ing this or that, I have never once posted about or blogged about my e-books.

Stupid.

I feel like I’m late to the party.

($3.99 are you out of your mind? Heck no! This sucker only costs $3.99!)

Three of my releases have e-editions in addition to their hardcover or trade paperback counterparts. I’ve known that they’ve been there, hanging out in cyberspace, waiting for a buyer, but since I don’t like reading on the computer as much as I enjoy holding a real book, I haven’t placed much attention upon, or even bothered pushing the digital stuff.

My publishers are too busy publishing to do much promotion. The e-book markets post them there for you to click upon and download, but they don’t do much to promote individual releases either. I want to get the word out there, but I don’t want to pay for any of this. A BLOG and a Facebook page are all I need. I hope. But then, I have you, Loyal Reader, and you’ll help in spreading the good word. Right?

Enter the iPad. My wife and daughter brought me one for Father’s day last. I love it. There are some interesting games (ARMY OF DARKNESS DEFENSE is free and it rocks!). Some cool work apps – like Microsoft Word and such. And then, after a few months of playing with it, I finally stumbled upon online comics and e-books.

(Sexy.)

They look so slick on the iPad’s beautiful screen. And they’re cheap! My e-bookshelf currently contains books by Weston Ochse and lots of free classics – The Odyssey, a complete Poe anthology, The Art Of War.

Just yesterday, the little bulb went off in my head. It signified an awakening.

Holy crap!

I have e-books that can look this good! And they do look good. They look great in the bright iPad light. The cover and interior art is in place. You get the whole book experience for a fraction of the cost. My e-books are budget, baby. You can get BLOOD & GRISTLE, AS FATE WOULD HAVE IT, and BLEED FOR YOU, for as low as $2.99! You can also grab a short story I wrote called THERE’S NO PLACE IN A SLEEPING WORLD FOR A WAKEFUL MAN for only 2 bucks!

(I’m only $4.99! Yes!)

I think the iPad has really pushed this e-reading to the next level. Screw the Kindle. It’s archaic architecture is nowhere near as exquisite as iPad’s iBooks. Your computer bookshelf is a beautiful thing. The book covers pop all vibrant and artsy. I can actually touch one of my covers and dive into this digital age.

I still prefer books, but my eyes have finally been opened. I was leery and sort of quietly waiting for my rights to revert so I could work out a better digital contract and then push the books and hope to turn a profit after conventions and promotion, but the future is now. It’s time to mobilize.

So then, if you like the cut of my jibe (yep!), and you feel me on this digital book thing, then why not grab your iPad and spend twelve bucks on three of my works. I guarantee you’ll find them interesting. Will you love them and memorize cool, flashy paragraphs of smooth talking prose? Will you get lost? Will you give into the dark? Will you ride the snake? Ride the snake, ride the snake to the lake, the ancient lake, baby. The snake is long, seven miles. Ride the snake…he’s old, and his skin is cold...(thanks, Jim).

($2.99 for twenty stories and accompanying art.)

Anyway follow the appropriate links (click on either the book covers or hyperlinked print) and let’s see what we can do in sales.

Okay, Loyal Reader, I appreciate your loving support. I promise to write you a masterpiece one of these days. Deal ?

The Great Reality TV Experiment

Posted in Books, Raves, Television on September 14, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

Ah! TVs! And Kevin James! Some lazy posts lately. Let’s get back to the writing stuff!

Or, how about reading stuff?

Teaching gives me the opportunity to reread and re-teach some of the classics. Right now, I’m in my third week of laying down a solid foundation from upon which to teach Homer’s epic poem, The Odyssey. We don’t read the whole Odyssey. The entire book is almost six hundred pages of ancient Greek verse. We read excerpts from a few of the The Odyssey’s many books. About a hundred and twenty pages worth. Not a bad sampling. Then we watch the movie and write essays about all of it.

(Giddyup!)

I love The Odyssey. I even love the word. The way it sounds. The way it rolls off the tongue. And I love Odysseus, the epic’s all-too human hero (you see, he’s got flaws and stuff – that what makes him a true hero, his humility, his humanity). The Gods are JEALOUS of the man’s vigor. His love for life. His obscene thought that he was equal or better than the Gods got them all riled up. How dare the vain man boast that he is better than an immortal?

Spicing things up, interfering with human triumph (and loss), the Gods use Odysseus as their own reality TV show experiment, pitting him against monsters, and ferocious oceans, and wily, seductresses. He engages in a ten-year struggle to escape the war-time horrors of Troy and make his way home to his beloved wife, Penelope. Worse, but awesome for drama, Penelope is besieged by 12o suitors, all eager to marry her and seize Odysseus’ kingdom of Ithaca. They eat her food and drink her wine, in excess, taking advantage of the laws of the land which demanded a widowed queen must be wed and giving the suitors the right to lounge about until she chooses one to take her long-missing husband’s place.

(Odysseus and his bow get mighty bloody. Best. Ending. Ever!)

That reads like a mighty fine movie pitch, doesn’t it? Why hasn’t some Hollywood producer gotten behind a big-budget screen version? We watch a version from the Sy-fy Channel. Simply titled, THE ODYSSEY, it’s a nineties production starring Armand Assante (who is fabulous) and a host of other Greeks. Eric Roberts chews it up as one of the evil suitors. The CGI is nineties bad, but the acting is lively and when the production uses real SFX in conjunction with the clunky CGI, they sometimes pull off stylized charm. It makes the movie fun.

We all know the whole book is better than the movie thing and it definitely applies here. The Odyssey is a masterpiece for a reason. It’s not only old and historical, it’s fun and pulpy. Odysseus is a charismatic dude. The action is fierce. Romantic interludes are sexy. It’s a great read.

The text is a joy to teach. I love the front-loading, where we study Chaos and Gaia and the Titans and the Olympians. I love transporting a crew of kids back four thousand years and reading interesting poetry about monsters and Odysseus’ cunning. I can’t believe I get paid to do it.

(In the beginning…there was Chaos!)

Tonight is a very important TV night. Survivor starts while Big Brother and America’s Got Talent comes to an end. That’s way too much TV! I like to get to sleep as early as I can (10ish), but this lineup is compromising my chances of getting a long night’s sleep.

We are gonna start at 8 and see how long we can go. If Michelle or I go down early, we’ll have to catch up on our DVR tomorrow, except tomorrow, the endings of AGT and BB may be revealed in class (some kids watch the shows). We have to decide which to watch tonight.

Till tomorrow, Loyal Reader! Survivor is calling…

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Lie To Me

Posted in Raves, Television on September 12, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

Oh Doug! You will never be too fat! Fill up at Eddie’s U Fry It. Eat that whole bag of Doritos. Don’t pull a Jonah Hill and attack weight loss. You have to be fat. It’s part of who you are. You can suck in the gut, or wear a girdle for your film work, but, as THE KING OF QUEENS (syndicated and playing everywhere on a TV near you), you must be a big boy! It don’t work without it. It’s out of character.

Right?

(Meatball sub, please?)

I mean, look, your character, Doug Heffernan (even that name is fat!), lies continuously. It’s funny. I laugh my butt off – still – all the time – and I’ve seen every episode at least twice (probably). Lots of episodes revolve around Doug lying to his wife Carrie, or his friend Deacon, or his father-in-law Arthur, or his cousin Danny, or even fat, geek, whipping boy, Patton Oswald (super stupid compared to the actual Patton Oswald’s stand-up material).

Doug Heffernan has no qualms about lying whatsoever. He will stare you dead-in-the-eye and tell you what you want to hear (no matter how untrue) until he gets his way. So it goes with food and being fat. The man has a greedy, gluttonous hunger that spills into all facets of his life.

It’s kind of sick when you think about it, but it’s a sitcom and Doug is also a sweet lug who always means well. Watch and see how easy it is to forgive his base ugliness. He loves his wife and often lies to protect his friends (no matter the idiot consequences). But…

Did you know that Doug Heffernan attended a wedding and took one of those disposable cameras and took a picture of his junk? Ouch. Seriously. He even put a little top hat on it.

When the pictures were developed and passed around a post-wedding send off soire, everybody freaked out. Doug blamed it on his cousin Danny. The scapegoat appears in pictures before and after the offending organ was captured on film. He was drunk. Oh, and he happened to once date the new bride. He was visibly broken up over it.

(Doug? I love the guy!)

Doug knew all of this, but instead of coming clean he twisted the knife and rode his cousin into the ground. Evil, sir, evil. Horrible, sir.

At long last, guilt eating him, he admits his faux pas, and then in frustrated grunts and ape-man groans he tries to pretend that what he did was fine. Carrie raises her eyebrows. Doug insists that Danny will be cool. So long as the lie sticks all is well. Things fall apart (of course), but everyone forgives Doug, because Doug Heffernan is an unstoppable beast. With friends like him, who needs enemies? You feel me, Loyal Reader?

Then there’s the love…

Carrie loves Doug.

Doug loves Carrie.

They dog each other every chance they get – kind of like a tamer THE WAR OF THE ROSES – but kiss and make-up after twenty-minutes.

Despite the lovey-smokescreen, when you really think about it, the show spends lots and lots of time being mean. They even ran a cliffhanger where Doug and Carrie almost separate – the couple wanting to live different dreams (she wants the NYC, high-rise condo, he wants their Queens’ duplex). They had a miscarriage episode. The elderly are abused regularly.

I love every second, Loyal Reader.

It’s funny because years and years ago, when I was attending Cal State Northridge, I’d watch TV screenings at the various movie studios to make a few extra bucks. The studios hired focused groups (fifty bucks for about three hours work!) to rate pilots and figure out their programming schedules / renew / pick up shows. You sit in a screening room with about twenty or thirty others and turn a little knob on a little remote control box. You go left everytime you like something, and right everytime you don’t.

The first screening I did was for THE KING OF QUEENS. I wasn’t all that impressed. I turned my knob right again and again and was surprised to see that the show actually made it on to the air.

But that’s how it goes with sitcoms. You give them half the chance and they’ll grow on you like a fungus. Smart ones like KING and THE OFFICE (which is so good, we watch it in primetime and in re-runs)? They infiltrate your soul. They whisper into your ear and convince you that they are much more than they are.

You say tomato, I say tomato…

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Comfortably Dumb

Posted in General, Movies, Raves on September 9, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

It begins with a gloriously ridiculous sight gag – a farmer-type spreads peanut butter on his junk and then invites a petting zoo’s worth of goats to nibble away. The man’s obscene mug, a toothy display of cheese, mugs, and mugs, and mugs. Around the sixty-minute mark, the dumbassyness of the comedy wears thin, but the first forty-five minutes are delirious fun.

The comedy is of the distinct, Happy Madison brand. BUCKY LARSON: BORN TO BE A STAR is a worthy addition to the Sandler & friends canon of inane, lazy comedies. The jokes are loose and dirty. A well tanned Don Johnson plays an adult film director named Miles Deep. Stephen Dorff is superstar and arrogant rival, Dick Shadow. His insane character once saw a shadow of his well-endowed body on a mountain side and then had an epiphany. The rude stage name arose from the experience.

Comedy superstars cameo and keep it sleazy. Kevin Nealon is strange (and strange-funny) as a foul-mouthed roommate.

(Oh boy, here we go…)

These movies – the Happy Madison overture – are the stupidest things on earth, but I love them. Millions and most film critics hate them. But then, millions of other folks, and most of my friends, dig the puerile potty humor. We see the forest through the trees, Loyal Reader. This crap is absurd. But it’s supposed to be absurd. It’s joyfully, unabashedly absurd.

Bucky Larson is a mid-westerner with huge buck teeth (the butt of many, many, many jokes) and a Dutch boy haircut. The blissfully oblivious character moves from a small town to LA after he discovers his parents starred in adult films. He thinks it’s his destiny to follow in their footsteps. Much ridiculous drama ensues.

I think I’ve used the word ridiculous a zillion times in this write-up. When talking Happy Madison, it’s the first word that comes to mind.

(Subtlety isn’t really his thing)

Anyway, artistically, there’s not much to discuss. Happy Madison plots are contrived, messy jumbles. The movies are barely directed (sorry directors), and some of them, a few more than others, are so slapdash lackadaisical that they are almost unwatchable. Almost. For when that idiot humor fires, and I’m doubled over, gasping for air, I can’t help but to give credit where credit is due. When can I laugh like that? When was the last time something uproariously sublime had you rolling on the floor? One scene in BUCKY LARSON had me laughing so hard that tears streamed down my cheeks. It’s that funny.

Swardson brings it. He plays the character…well…like a character, but he’s fun and he’s funny. His O face is priceless. Christina Ricci plays nervous and nice as Bucky’s girlfriend. She does what is required over her and little more.

Like all great art, risks must be taken in the film making process. Some of Happy Madison’s shabby charm is in the way scenes are rammed together, ending abruptly, one sequence after another rubbing shoulders in odd cuts and messy jumps in time / cohesive narrative flow. Sometimes things are just weird.

Sometimes their sitcomish stories stretch credulity to the absolute limit. I don’t know what it is, but Sandler and company have the touch. They get me laughing which isn’t always easy to do. Sometimes they hit below the belt, going for the easy win with poop jokes. We roll our eyes and shake our heads and giggle at the foolishness of it all. Magic.

(An Empire of Dunces)

LARSON uses all of the same troupes every Happy Madison film uses. Let’s see, Loyal Reader…I think most of you are among the hundreds of millions of people who catch these films at the movies or on video. I’m going to assume you’ve seen THE WATERBOY, HAPPY GILMORE, GRANDMA’S BOY, and maybe, even, last year’s JUST GO WITH IT.

All four movies are retarded with a capital R. They are profane but sweet. They feature wild, unfocused direction and sitcom quality narratives. They are compulsively watchable. Supporting characters are outlandish. The ridiculous of it all is shared between the audience and the filmmakers. We know that they know that their films are goofy and in the end everybody’s needs are being met.

(Chimps and video games. These are a few of my favorite things…)

Some might argue that two of the four films are inept and worthless (many critics have slammed GRANDMA’S BOY and JUST GO WITH IT – THE WATERBOY and HAPPY GILMORE on the other hand actually have a bit more cred. Some critics like those two). I think they all have their golden moments.

GRANDMA’S BOY has Nick Swardson’s kid-car bed and I laughed out loud when he called his parents his ‘Roommates.’ It’s also got a great, uncomfortable scene involving a bathroom and an action figure (watch and understand).

JUST GO WITH IT has Dave Matthews picking up a large coconut with his butt cheeks and a classic little vignette featuring a kid wilding out in a Chuck E. Cheese parking lot. Hopped up on sugar, the wild kid runs away from his mom and then throws a soda at her in slow motion. Awesome.

THE WATER BOY and HAPPY GILMORE are so iconic and entrenched in popular culture that I don’t have to bother pointing out the highlights. Both films are extremely likable. Their subplots – the love interest stuff and other bits of things disconnected from the momentum of the A story – are more endearing. Sandler pulls off a couple of great leads. HAPPY GILMORE has him in Chevy Chase FLETCH / CADDYSHACK mode, witty and rude, but charming and charismatic. Endearing, right?

And who can forget THE WATERBOY? Sandler played the whole thing straight. Not Bobby Boucher’s ridiculous voice, and hair, and brain, but his world-view. The character is a goof, but he’s a sweet goof who believes in doing the right thing. He’s truly nice and his high-pitched stammer makes me smile from ear to ear.

(My Mama says that alligators are ornery because they got all them teeth and no toothbrush.)

So then, give into the idiocy and give BUCKY LARSON a chance. It’s a nice showcase for Swardson. It’s super stupid, but if you go in expecting as much, you’ll discover another Happy Madison confection – sugary sweet, slightly rancid, but as light and airy as a whisp of cotton candy.

More Larson goodness…

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A Little Night Music

Posted in Books, General, Music, Raves on September 7, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

Coolio! I finished a short today and sent it off to an editor for consideration. This was an invite gig, so long as my story works for this particular anthology, I’m golden. The trifle (about 4000 words) is entitled, The Sad, Not-So-Sad, Ballad of Goat-Head Jean, Ambivalent, Devil Queen. I know, I know, it’s looong. Maybe to a fault? I think it’s interesting. We’ll see.

Short stories are so HARD (check a recent rant on them here). I sit there and churn the little suckers out, moving things, trying to find away to give these wild stories some levity to counter the pitch-black horror and violence. As of late, I have been having fun playing The Narrator. I get to interject and intrude here and there. I like the style. I like how I can frame absurdist bits with a bit of knowing humor. Then I like to drench the whole thing with buckets of vile blood. Fun!

I have to begin editing another short for another anthology. This one isn’t an invite, so I have to submit to the slush pile and hope I make the cut. This story is particularly good (if I don’t say so myself ;-). I wrote it for an invite antho that caved (I was really looking forward to it too – the editor and publisher are top shelf). I gotta give it a coat of paint and send it off by the end of this week.

Unfortunately, this project only accepts snail mail submissions!

I actually have to print the manuscript out and send it via the US Post!

Why am I yelling?

Calm down, okay? Okay. Anyway, I am so used to doing the e-mail thing. We usually don’t print anything on paper until the ARCs, and then the final book comes out. Oh well. I dig the old school approach and I really, really like this publisher. It would be an honor. Why so cryptic, using terms like publisher and editor rather than name drop? I don’t want to jinx things here. I’ll spill when the time is right – upon acceptance or denial – and don’t worry, I’ll name names so you know what’s what and who’s who.

In any case, my cool sister was nice enough to give me a Rolling Stone’s book (a special edition of the magazine) about the Beatles and the production of all of their albums. It’s an awesome read. I love learning about the technical secrets behind the creation of each track. The maga-book (?) also has some nice stills, sidebar pieces by popular musicians about their feelings on this album or that, and a nice breakdown of each song and how it was recorded.

(Beatles, like cockaroaches, will never die. They will outlive us all and last forever and ever.)

I feel in love with the Beatles when I was about twenty. Some of you discovered them earlier, some of you might have yet to have a Beatles phase. But you will. Trust me. So long as you’re human and of this earth, if you don’t love the Beatles, you will. Just listen and learn, Loyal Reader. Bow to the master of rock, R&B, and pop.

The early albums are jangly, rocking gems. The later stuff got a bit deeper. Most of their lyrics are wonderful, introspective bits of pop perfection. Some of them are actually pretty dark. I even used the line – What do you see when you turn out the light / I can’t tell you but I know it’s mine – as the closing for one of my stories. It concludes the tale of a man who is forced to eat his way out of a pit of dead bodies (Consumed, from HORROR LIBRARY Vol.3 and my collection, BLOOD & GRISTLE). Cutting Block Press (the publishers behind the Horror Library series) couldn’t print it due to contractual reasons, but I think it remained intact in BLOOD & GRISTLE (hmmm, I’ll have to check that).

(Freaky cover, huh? I never showed this one to my mama. Too scary!!!)

Anyway, those Beatles were masters of melody, craft, the hook, and some damned ingenious major and minor chord shifts. They jam out on the greatest, blistering rockers, and haunt your mind with the greatest, melancholic slow burners. They mined that minor scale and tapped into pure emotion. Plenty have done it before (the Beatles had to learn from someone) and plenty more after (all trained by the Beatles), but in my humble (esteemed, expert, conceited) opinion they stand at Number One.

Here is one of my favorite Beatles bits. This one is a Lennon original and its melody does something indescribably special to my brain.

If I fell in love with you / would you promise to be true / and help meeee / understand
’cause I’ve been in love before / and I found that love was more / than just holding hands

Well, Loyal Reader, that did it. Now, If I Fell is stuck on repeat in my head. Why not give it a listen and get stuck too…

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Wheels Within Wheels

Posted in General, Music, Raves, Television on September 5, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

WHEEL OF FORTUNE has always been one of the dumbest game shows out there. You spin a giant, colorful wheel for a dollar amount and then guess, guess, guess, until the word-puzzle before you comes clear. That’s it. Just by being alive, just be being sentient and possessing the appropriate senses, we know the basics. It seems like something our cave-dwelling ancestors made up. I picture grunting cavemen chalking up rock walls, buying vowels.

(Um…I can buy a vowel can’t I?)

I don’t know how, but over the many, many, many years (thirty-six and going strong) of its seemingly infinite run, it’s become a cultural touchstone. EVERYBODY knows what WHEEL OF FORTUNE is and EVERYBODY knows how it’s played.

Pat Sajack and Vanna White have the best jobs ever. And they’ve been doing them forever. And if they are as smart as I think they are (for sticking with it all of these years), they’ll ride the Wheel right into the grave. (Note: I must add that they are both extremely likable personalities. Whereas most talk show hosts are interchangeable – I actually think Pat and Vanna bring something to the show.)

(You know it’s rigged.)

Okay, okay, this post isn’t actually about Wheel. That’s how it begins, and that’s how it’ll continue for another paragraph or so, but don’t worry, Loyal Reader, we will move on to something worthwhile. The thing I wanted to extract from this Wheel discussion is big $$$. Out of all the game shows, I have the most respect for how Wheel handles paying their contestants. All three players, win or lose, get to take home the money they earned by shouting out random letters. If you earn a respectable 16,000 bucks, but the Autistic Savant to your left racks up 25,000 in cash and trips, you still get to keep your cash. Rainman moves on to the final round where he or she could take home more cash, or more trips, or a car, but you still get to keep your sixteen large. How cool is that?

I’ve seen complete losers – the wheel brutalizing them with the thorny LOSE A TURN, or the money-sucking beast, BANKRUPT – walk away with five grand! Five grand for guessing, poorly! Where do I sign up? It was way cool doing the BIG BROTHER live taping, but something tells me it’s much, much harder to become one of the three, daily, Wheel contestants. If you know somebody who knows somebody, hook a brother up! And don’t worry – I won’t be wasting anybody’s time buying any stupid vowels. There’s no way I’m wasting money and giving up precious bits of the puzzle to my fellow competitors. I’ll leave the vowel-buying to the cocksure idiots to my right or left. Recognize!

What a world, Loyal Reader!

Anyhow, this looong Labor day weekend has been really, really nice. I got to visit with family (my niece and twin nephews are too cute for words), hang with my wife (always nice), and do some serious sleeping in. Michelle and I even hit Target and grabbed some new music. Last haul’s discs have been wearing out our CD changer and we needed to change things up a bit.

(Oh my, what blingy teeth you have!)

MY MORNING JACKET (Circuital), ARCADE FIRE (Funeral), RADIOHEAD (The King of Limbs), and BAD MEETS EVIL (Hell: The Sequel) have made lasting impressions and will definitely be back. Each album has a number of songs that worked their way under my skin. Circuital’s The Day is Coming and Wonderful, Funeral’s Crown Of Love (which sounds exactly like a Bright Eyes song, The King of Limb’s entire second half, from track five’s Lotus Flower, to track eight’s Separator, and Hell: The Sequel’s Living Proof, keep wafting through my mind. Check this hook from Living Proof:
When them bottles stop poppin’ / and them dollars start stopping
Do what you did to get it and don’t stop
I made a promise to my momma / I’mma out live her
How can I be a quitter when haters don’t stop?
I’m living proof ~~nigga~~ / it’s pretty safe to say
God giveth and God taketh away
It’s the Worldwide American way / I’m living proof ~~nigga~~

Awesome, huh? Sorry about the expletives (I struck those suckers as not to offend). No harm meant. The flow is just sooo tight (you gotta hear it to appreciate it). I’ll try to tack a version of it at the end of this post.

The new stuff – Watch The Throne, KANYE WEST and JAY-Z‘s recent collaboration (Kanye is at the top of his game and Jay-Z rarely disappoints – I have high hopes for this one), Turtleneck & Chain by THE LONELY ISLAND (Andy Sandberg and co.), and Tha Carter IV by best rapper alive LIL’ WAYNE – promises more audio gold. I’ve only listened to a little of Tha Carter. So far, so good, but Wayne has a whole lot to live up to. Surpassing Tha Carter III is an impossible feat. That album was one of those rare birds. It’s a stunna from beginning to end. It reminds me of Dre’s The Chronic, Dogg’s Doggystyle, Biggie’s Life After Death, and Wyclef’s The Carnival – seminal albums that rock a house party from track one on.

(Bow Wow Wow Yippi Yo Yippy Yay, the sounds of tha Dogg bring you to another day…)

Still, it took me a number of listens to get the genius of Tha Carter III, so I’m not writing the new disc off just yet. These songs will surely infiltrate my psychosis. The question remains? Will every track work its way in? Here’s to hope, Loyal Reader.

I’ll keep you posted. If I hear greatness, you’ll definitely hear about it.

Well, there you go. A little Wheel, a little new music, Labor Day fun! Now, back to work! I’ve got minds to mold and stories to edit. It’s September, sir… and madams! Deadlines are approaching! Here’s to productivity!

Here it is! The most exciting, compelling song out there at the moment…

Live Jive!

Posted in General, News, Raves, Television on September 2, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

I am turning into my father (aren’t we all). For my birthday (last month – August 9th), my sister hooked us up with some tickets to a live taping of BIG BROTHER. We watch the show religiously (three times a week!) and love every second. We’ve been watching since season 2. We might be fan enough to be called Superfans! How dorky is that?

Still, I’m growing more and more curmudgeonly in my old age. I don’t like being directed. I don’t enjoy watching TV with a large group of chattering cows. I’d rather be kicking it in my over-stuffed recliner, fast-forwarding through breaks, pausing for the restroom, as opposed to sitting straight-backed, waiting to cheer and clap like a good monkey as the show comes in and out of promo packages and Julie Chen teasers.

(I do what I want! Don’t make me use this thing!)

If you don’t watch BIG BROTHER, here’s how it works. A group of diverse strangers, psychologically screened and selected for maximum drama, enter a house rigged with tons of cameras and mics. They are cut off from the outside world – no TV, or books, or entertaining distractions to fight the boredom – and then pitted against one another in a battle of wills while the cameras roll and roll. Each week they compete in competitions for power (and prizes) and they strategize, voting each other out in an effort to be the last contestant standing. It’s great psycho-traumatic fun. The BB formula – guinea pigs in a fishbowl – is Reality TV at its very finest.

Watching from the studio audience was an interesting experience. I still prefer my couch and remote, but I’m glad I got to see how it all goes down. The show runs like a well-oiled machine. Production assistants run to and fro, positioning this, moving that, setting up shot after shot while the stage manager warms the audience and sets up applause cues.

(A little blurry, but there we are! I’m the guy in the center rocking the beard. My lovely wife, Michelle, is to my left, my awesome sister and her awesome husband are to my right.)

Julie Chen is lots of fun to watch. Like the finely tuned live broadcast whirring and whizzing around her, she is the consummate professional. It’s a trip following her as she hits her marks and reads from teleprompters like the expertly programmed Chen-Bot she is. Man, oh man, technology doesn’t get much better. Androids like Mrs. Chen represent the very finest in modern-day cybernetics. Her husband, Mr. CBS himself (Les Moonves), must have some deep connections in the replicant black market.

As the make-up lady prepped Julie between takes, brushing her nose here, powdering here cheeks there, Mrs. Chen moved her head and swung her hair just like a real woman! I might have even believed she was of the flesh, but I caught the steady glow of a tell-tale Neural Pulse Inhibitor at the base of her hairline.

(More human than human?)

The live show ingeniously jumps from Julie doing her thing, to pre-recorded packages, to live banter with the house guests via a video feed. It’s impressive how many cameras and mics are going on at once, flip-flopping, hitting their marks, building a cohesive show through an intricate series of synchronized attacks. I can’t imagine how nerve-racking it must have been during the show’s infancy. Already in its 13th season, every little thing runs smooth, smooth, smooth.

Okay, now that most of the technical details are out of the way, we can talk about the stuff we really want to talk about – screen time!

You know that’s the only thing that really matters here. Sitting there in the studio audience, we’re constantly aware of the swooping, swinging cameras, and the Chen Bot 3000’s placement within each scene. There were several times where she was actually standing directly in front of me (we had front row seats, yep!) and I purposefully leaned to my left to get my mug in the shot. If you watch it back, half of my face, sometimes my entire face, gets lots of screen time during Julie’s interview with evicted houseguest, Shelley (suck it, Shelley! Good riddance, you back-stabbing traitor!). Most of the time I am trying not to laugh while trying not to look too ridiculously obvious.

(Please stop lip-reading from the prompter. You have thirty seconds to comply.)

It’s funny because in the beginning of the shoot, the stage manager, instructs the audience in the ways of studio etiquette. The best one is when he tells us not to read the words on the teleprompter along with Julie. The anarchist in me wanted to lip read sooo bad! How cool would it be to make The Soup as the whacked out studio audience member who sits there and dumbly lips along? A Joel McHale quip / barb in your honor? Priceless.

Michelle and I dared each other to behave badly and make some sort of spectacle of ourselves, but we both chickened out. What can I say? We’re too damn respectful for our own good. Growing up sucks.

All-in-all, I ‘d recommend the experience. If you get a chance to watch one of your favorite shows in a live, studio audience type situation, clear your calendar and go for it. You won’t be able to enjoy your program in the same way you do at home – no bathroom breaks or rolling back the DVR to catch something you missed – but your eyes will be able to take in the whole picture warts and all.

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Death Of A Glam God

Posted in General, Music, Rants, Raves on August 29, 2011 by Michael Louis Calvillo

Warrant’s lead singer, Jani Lane, died a few weeks back at the age of 47. Of what? Not sure, but I saw a few news briefs on Facebook and across the web and felt a tinge of sorrow. I have no emotional / musical connection to Warrant, or Jani Lane. In fact, when Warrant was at the height of their success in the late eighties / early nineties, if you asked me what I thought of them (the band or the singer), I was likely to sneer or scoff.

Glam metal was by far the uncoolest music on the planet. I was way into the Pixies and Skinny Puppy and a slew of artsy-fartsy noise rockers. Warrant played the kind of music that pissed me off. It was sugary, over-produced, pop-rock trying to affect edge with metal guitar and lots of hairspray. The preening made me nauseous.

(So you’re fifteen. Who do you listen to?)

Fast forward a good five years. The angry young man that used to raise the bird to glam metal, and pop, and dance, and commercial rap, had officially grown up. Suddenly, music, ALL music (well…most music), had a degree of validity. I wasn’t going to go out and buy the latest C&C Music Factory album, but then, I began to understand that sometimes music is just…fun.

It didn’t have to be socially aware or mean something. It didn’t have to be a part of a particular movement or scene. I learned to appreciate a funky radio single here, or a tight, club hit there. I loosened up. I got dancing. I stopped being a judgemental douche bag.

(A quick note of advice to any of my close-minded students who may be reading this – as the strutting ladies of En Vogue tried to tell me all those years ago – free your mind and the rest will follow). Indeed.

(Hey, Stupid! Grow up! Your exclusionary ways are crippling your artistic potential!)

Anyway, nowadays, it doesn’t matter if something is punk, or funk, or pop, or rap, or metal, or be-bop-fusion-swing. Good music is good music. Good songwriting is good songwriting. If you think otherwise (now, I’m talking to you close-minded adults), you’re missing out on one of the great pleasures of life. Man, oh, man, how I love it when my iPod shuffles from 50 Cent, to Fiona Apple, to Lionel Richie, to The Black Dahlia Murder. The more diverse the better!

So it goes with Mr. Jani Lane. Warrant meant nothing to me back in the day, and still doesn’t mean much to me now, but the man wrote, Heaven, a perfect little rock ballad if there ever was one, and his passing deserves to be mourned.

That particular song really is beautiful. The rest of Lane’s output? Meh.

Cherry Pie is kind of fun, but it’s also super stupid. Should it shuffle its way into my 8000 song mega-mix, I may listen to a minute or two, but more than likely it’ll get a skip. Heaven on the other hand? I’ll listen to it, intently, from beginning to end. The verses are hum-a-liciously melodic and that chorus soars. I prefer the stripped down acoustic version – the original studio recording is way over done, the glitzy, glam rock production muddles things a bit. Still, either rendition is a keeper in my book.

A quick aside – ROCK OF AGES, one of the best Broadway shows ever (if you haven’t seen it, get yourself to Times Square and check it out), uses Lane’s Heaven to great effect (mashing it up with Extreme’s gem, More Than Words, and Mr. Big’s equally awesome, To Be With You). The song serves as the play’s coda of sorts, ending and linking certain scenes as our hero, a struggling musician named Drew, tries to work out the arrangement to the perfect, hit song. The play has some fun with the lyrics, but keeps those wonderful melodies intact.

(Go see this NOW!)