Lost: Down the Hatch – Meet Kevin Johnson

Down the Hatch No Comments


By Chris Kirkman

“Meet Kevin Johnson” Recap and Analysis …

Is it just me, or is “Kevin Johnson” one of the lamest pseudonyms you’ve ever heard? I think it just shows the Others’ utter disdain for Michael. But I digress. We got a strange bird this week – one of those hour-long flashbacks (and without the help of LSD!) combined with an OMG SHOCKER ending that left me scratching my head and kinda wondering why I should really care. Yeah, yeah, it was still a pretty good one, but I hope I’m not the only one that had the inkling of a thought that the writing staff was called out on strike about halfway through penning it.

But, hey, is this a review or a recap, right? It’s whatever I dang well want it to be, and get off my lawn. Right now what I want it to be is short. I never thought I’d say this, but thank the fates we’ve got another month before the next episode.

And … recap!

Previously, on Lost: It’s the future, or the present, or whenever, and Sun is the Oceanic Sixth. She has a baby. It’s a girl, called Ji Yeon. Oh, and Jin’s dead, by the way. Don’t get too attached. Meanwhile, back on the freighter, people can’t stop killing themselves. Sayid and Desmond find out that the Captain is pretty straightforward about the whole “working for Charles Widmore” thing, and throws out a black box from the supposed wreckage of Oceanic 815. On the island, Juliet’s a big old tattletale (still, she can tattle me anyday), Bernard’s the tropical Dr. Phil and Jack shows up for only about 15 seconds. Thank God. Oh, and in a little end-of-episode we-all-saw-it-coming, MICHAEL IS ON THE BOAT!!!!!!!

I think that just about catches us up.

And now, Meet Kevin Johnson.

This week’s episode-inspired drink recipe isn’t exactly inspired by the episode. I’m tired, cranky, worn-out and ornery, much like how I feel after I’ve been indulging a little too much in libations the night before. Yes, I’m talking about ye olde hangover, and I’ll bet it’s pretty much how Michael’s felt since he got off that damn island. So, in honor of my crankiness and Michael’s misery, I present to you the ultimate hangover cure – and ultimate pick-me-up when you have that not-so-fresh feeling.

The Classic Bloody Mary

  • 2 oz vodka
  • 3 oz tomato juice
  • 1 dash lemon juice
  • 1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
  • 2 – 3 drops Tabasco® sauce(more if you’re bold!)
  • 1 lime wedge (optional)

Combine the vodka, tomato juice, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce and tabasco with ice and shake well. Strain into a tall glass with ice. salt and pepper to taste. Add the lime if you so desire. And, of course, if you happen to be one of those people who keeps celery around, by all means throw a stalk in there. I usually end up just poking my eye out, but to each their own. And no whining about not liking tomatoes, either. I hate tomatoes, but I LOVE a Bloody Mary. Enjoy!

To make things a little clearer and to keep my sanity intact, I’m just gonna break this episode down into sections: The freighter, the long and winding flashback, and island life. Let’s get this party started.

Sayid and Desmond are still on the freighter, but Frank’s not. He’s out wasting gas and time travelling, apparently. Alarms sound and the Iraqi-Scottish duo spring up to the deck to find the good Captain beating the high holy crap out of a couple of the crew. He has a good reason, though. Apparently he subscribes to the age-old philosophy of “beatings will continue until morale improves.” Sounds good to me.

After spilling blood on the deck, the Captain orders Mr. Johnson to clean the mess up. Once everyone’s cleared deck, Sayid badgers Michael about why he’s on board. Michael simply tells him “I’m here to die.” Oookay, then. At least he’s not still bitching about getting his son back.

Sayid and Desmond go tooling around the boat and down to the engine room, where Michael’s “working” on the downtrodden engine. Michael asks the other guy in the room to go off and find him a flange vertex valve or some other piece of metal that I’m sure probably only exists inside the crankshaft of a ‘69 Nova. Once alone, Sayid’s eyes go red and he switches into Terminator mode, throwing Michael into the wall of the room. And, lo and behold, a flashback spills out.

And … flashback!

Once upon a time, in a far away (is)land, there dwelt a man and his son. One day the son was kidnapped by some off-Broadway wannabes and the man was forced to lie, steal, maim and kill his way back to his son and float away from the (is)land in some rinky dink bass boat. And, lo, there was much angst.

Speaking of angst, he’s sitting in a rundown apartment now, apparently in Manhattan because, really, there is no other default city quite like it, and scribbling something or other on a piece of paper. Having finished that bit of business, it’s off to the run-down car that all directors assign to characters that are supposed to be at the end of their rope, and then straight off to the docks. Michael cranks the radio and cries a little as The Mamas and the Papas ironically sing about everything getting better. Then he guns the gas and rams the car full speed into a shipping container. Apparently not a Mama Cass fan.

He lives, though, and later wakes up in the hospital a little worse for wear. The door opens and in from the shadows walks Libby. This, of course, sends Michael into a hissy fit before he wakes up and realizes it was all a dream. The actual nurse comes in and asks if she should contact Walt for him. Apparently, the note he was writing was to his son, telling him that Michael loved him. A good, old-fashioned suicide note.

Sometime later we see Michael making his way to a house around Christmas time. A woman answers, and we all assume it has to be his mother, probably because she’s now looking after Walt whom Michael asks to see. Mama Dawson throws her hand on her hip, gets her sass on and tells him that there’s no way she’s gonna let him in after how much she traumatized the boy. He was gone for two months and won’t tell her where, nor will he let her tell anyone that they’re still alive and not at the bottom of an ocean trench like the other 300-something passengers on Oceanic 815. Michael simply asks her to tell Walt that he stopped by and that he loves him. Apparently Michael can throw in league with the devil himself, gun down one not-so-innocent latina and one innocent Libby and give up all his friends to the bad/good/whatever guys to get him and his son off the island, but he can’t stand up to one sassy black lady. Okay, so I have to admit that all that killing and lying and whatnot is probably an easier task, so I’m going to let this one slide. At any rate, as Michael leaves with his heart black as coal, he turns and sees Walt in an upstairs window. Walt doesn’t respond, but simply shuts the blinds. Ooh, burn.

Michael goes to a pawn shop and asks to sell off Jin’s Rolex (that damn watch has been through more than Butch’s dad’s from Pulp Fiction). The counter jockey looks at Michael suspiciously, then offers him a few hundred for it. But oh, no, Michael doesn’t want money. He wants a gun. With bullets. And he gets one since apparently the pawn shop doesn’t pay attention to the seven day waiting period.

Michael makes his way to a secluded alley (why are there always convenient secluded alleys in Manhattan?), pulls the gun from paper sack, loads it and points it at his temple. Before we hear a click and thunder, a man walks up and asks for the time. Well, whaddaya know, it’s old Tom. Michael hasn’t forgotten his old friend and soon stands and takes a shot at Tom. Tom’s having none of that, though, and soon disarms Michael. They get into a good tussle and then Michael plays dirty, breaking a bottle over Tom’s head, then tries to slit his throat with the shards (this never works in real life, people, just so you know). Tom has a gun of his own, though, and he simply points it at Michael.

Mr. Suicide wants it and begs Tom to pull the trigger. Uh uh, says Tom. The island’s not through with Michael just yet, and it won’t let Michael die. He hands the gun back over to Michael and tells him to give it a try if he doesn’t believe Tom. Tom tells him that when Michael is ready, he’ll be at the Hotel Earle, and the Others need his help.

To make a long story short, Michael musters the guts to pull the trigger one more time in his apartment later. The gun, of course, goes click. He’s gonna try again, but stops when a news report interrupts, telling everyone of the discovery of the wreckage of Oceanic 815. Michael’s brain flips sideways and soon he’s making his way over to Tom’s hotel.

Inside the penthouse suite, Tom’s enjoying some food and the company of his gay lover, Arturo. Yes, people, in case you missed the random memo that went out in an interview during the second season, Tom’s gay. I guess the Lost writers thought there was a lack of sexual diversity on the island and decided to expand a bit. Of course, by doing so, the only resulting moral we can glean from this whole backstory is that if you’re gay on or off the island, some redneck is eventually going to shoot you. Anywho, Mike wants some answers and Tom spills the beans. The wreckage was staged by Charles Widmore, who has somehow discovered the island and it’s magical properties, and who also doesn’t want anyone to find out about the place. The wreckage and the bodies were also put there so that no one would miss any of the survivors after he kills them all and claims the island for himself. Tom backs all this up with a neat little dossier full of photos of empty Thai graves and a receipt for a 777 from Planes ‘R Us. Shockingly, Michael buys the whole thing.

Tom then asks for Michael’s help, gives him a passport and informs him that he’s to infiltrate a freighter leaving out of Fiji. Michael wants to know why he should work for “you people.” Frankly, I never picked Michael as a homophobe. A borderline sociopath with some parental guidance issues, sure. But I digress. Tom plays to Michael’s guilt and tells him that this is his chance to set things right and do something good to redeem himself. By killing everyone on board the boat, of course.

Well, old Michael is soon on the docks in Fiji and the cavalcade of soon-to-be-dead people start popping up. First there’s Minkowski who welcomes him on board, then Naomi gives him a little props for knowing she’s from Manchester. She’s got a crate there for him, and will be delivered to his room later. Mike then bumps into Miles who calls his bullshit and tells him he knows that Kevin Johnson is a fake name. He tells Michael not to worry, though, as most people on the boat are lying about something or other. Tom gives him a call on his cell and reminds him that he needs to go through with all this if he wants to help out the people he screwed over on the island.

Out at sea, Naomi and Frank start arguing about the first trip to the island and Naomi tells him to shut his pie hole because she’s going first and he doesn’t need to know why. I’d like to know why, actually, other than as a paper-thin device to prep us for a knife-in-the-back cliffhanger last season. Frank gets tired of arguing and decides to go hang with Michael. They commiserate and Frank tells Michael all about his theory of Oceanic 815’s crash being faked. Michael tries to act surprised. Hey, looks like Frank may be one of the good guys. That means he’s probably going to die in a fire.

A little bit later Michael finds Mutt and Jeff out on deck firing submachine guns at dinner plates. It’s right about now that Michael finally gets the feeling that these guys are up to no good and heads down to his bunk to see what Papa Ben has sent to him. Inside is an ominous black case, which he promptly picks up and takes down to the engine room. He opens it. It’s a bomb, of course. I think they used this same suitcase bomb in Die Hard 3. No joke. Anyways, Michael does the whole arm the bomb thing and then lets his finger hover over the big, red execute button. C’mon, push it. Do it. Do it. Everybody’s doing it. He doesn’t want to … until he hears The Mamas and the Papas again. I’m telling you, he’s really got something against Mama Cass. The timer starts ticking down from 15, Michael says “I love you, Walt,” and then … a little flag pops up with a note that says “Did you know that the word gullible isn’t even in the dictionary?”

Obviously a little peeved at his mission being in limbo, Michael is working out some stress in his bunk with a little yellow ball. Minkowski walks in and tells him he has a phone call … from somebody named Walt. Before you can say “Give me back my son” Michael is in the radio room. Michael asks George for some privacy, puts on the earpiece and microphone … and is greeted by Ben’s voice. Total bummer for Michael, man. Ben tells Michael that he provided the bomb to teach a lesson – that Ben wouldn’t kill innocents and Charles Widmore would. Hell of a way to drive home a point there, psychopath. Michael tries to parry by throwing Ana Lucia and Libby’s death in Ben’s face, but Ben counter-attacks by saying that he never asked for their deaths and it was all Michael’s doing. Touché. Ben then asks Michael to get him a list of everyone on board, then disable the radio and the engine room and await further orders. If Michael will do this, says Ben, Mike can consider himself one of the good guys. Whatever that means in this crazy show.

MEANWHILE, back on the island, or Camp Locke to be exact, John has everyone gathered together with Miles so that Miles can tell them all why he’s really there. For Ben, he says. Duh, says Sawyer. Not so fast, says Locke. Betcha didn’t know that Miles’s orders after he gets Ben is to kill everyone on the island. Nope, Sawyer didn’t know that.

Later on down the line, Ben stops Alex and asks her to go with Karl and Danielle to The Temple so that she will be safe. He even drew them a map – a map that looks strangely like the one that Daniel Faraday used to find The Tempest. Coincidence? Meaningful? Only one artist on the production staff? You decide. At any rate, Danielle agrees that it’s a good idea to get the hell out of dodge, and so they leave.

She soon eats her words as she and Karl die at the hands of snipers on their way through the jungle of mystery. You see how I just kinda put that out there, with not much lead up? Yeah, that’s exactly how the ending to this episode felt. We’re left for five weeks with only the impression of Alex with her hands up, screaming “I’m Ben’s daughter, don’t shoot!” Someone’s been watching the first season of Heroes, apparently.

Cue the thonk!

So, yeah. We got a lot of episode, a few answers that don’t really mean a whole lot, and five weeks to ponder why Michael doesn’t like The Mamas and the Papas. Hey, at least we can all keep thinking how this whole time travel thing works, right?

You’ll have to forgive me here, but there just doesn’t seem to be as much to talk about in the analysis this week as usual. No spooky cabin, no smoke monster, no flux capacitors. I will, however, offer up a few little things that have me intrigued or perplexed.

Thing the one

Forget all this other flashback answery shit, can somebody tell me exactly how Michael piloted the retarded second cousin of the SS Minnow all the way across the Pacific, through the Panama Canal, up the east coast and straight to Ellis Island? Yeah, yeah, perhaps he was picked up by a fishing boat somewhere, or he was wearing a license plate (ooooh, a cookie for anyone that remembers that Lost reference), but still. Come on, powers-that-be, throw us a frickin’ bone here.

Thing the two

I can’t quite figure out how the time dilation is actually affecting the time on and off the island. On one hand, the time Michael spent off the island is indeterminate and could actually be weeks or even months ahead of the time perceived as having past on the island. On the other, just enough time passed normally between Micheal getting off the island with Walt, his suicide attempts, his draft into the Army of Others and his passage on board the freighter. It’s a tad rushed, but it has been a season and a half now. We also can still only speculate as to when, exactly, the six get off the island. From the flash presents, it’s unclear how long they’ve been back on the mainland. This current storyline with the freighter may end with no one actually getting off the island and their passage coming at a later date. Of course, they may get off the island by season’s end. It’s anyone’s guess, really, as I don’t think we have enough clues otherwise. Personally, unless they have a clear plan to end the series next season, I think the writers are going to paint themselves into a corner if the six get off the island this season. That’s just my two cents, though.

Thing the three

Who else doesn’t know quite what to think about Widmore at this point? Did he really set up the whole crash or was Tom blowing smoke up Michael’s ass? Was the Captain actually telling the truth and Widmore isn’t really behind it all? We’re between a rock and a hard place here, as we can’t exactly trust Ben, nor can we trust Widmore’s people. Right now, I’m tempted to actually side with Ben on this one and believe, as I have for a season and a half, that Charles Widmore is at the root of most of this, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they pull a double whammy on me. Personally, I think I’ll be happy either way. I can’t say it’s quite the same with the whole Michael reveal. Everyone and their brother saw that one coming.

Thing the four

Who thinks Danielle is really dead? There’s just too much dramatic meat left on that bone for her to die just yet. We just got introduced to a brand new mommy/daddy dynamic with her, Ben and Alex, and it just doesn’t seem fair to kill her off. Danielle’s not an extra, she’s been an integral part of the story for four seasons now and there wasn’t adequate closure to her storyline. I’ll be sad if that’s the end of her.

Thing the five

I don’t really have a fifth thing, but I can’t in good conscience close up shop without acknowledging one non-Lost related happening this week. Tuesday’s episode of Jericho was the series finale, and a lot of us fans had to say goodbye to some characters that almost felt like family. It was a good fight, we sent in peanuts – as silly as that sounds – and CBS listened, but we can’t win again. Jericho is gone and will be missed. I admire CBS for giving the show another shot and only wish that more people could have done the same. They missed out one helluva ride. If there are any fans out there reading this, I only have one thing to say: Nuts!

And that just about does it for this week. Lost will be back in about four weeks, and so will I. Until then, keep thinking those deep thoughts and if your mind gets all crafty, tell me something good.

Namaste.

Chris Kirkman is a graphic designer/photographer/journalist/geek extraordinaire with way too many Bruce Campbell movies in his library. He is still hoping that Lost will end when Bob Newhart wakes up next to Suzanne Pleshette, complaining of a strange, strange dream. You can contact him at ckirkman@hobotrashcan.com.

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Murphy’s Law – Poor Man’s Movie Review – Ogre

Murphy's Law, Reviews No Comments

Joel Murphy

It’s no secret that movies these days are expensive. By the time you pay for two tickets, popcorn and drinks, you are out around $40 on a movie that is most likely a remake, sequel or poorly-executed sports comedy starring Will Ferrell. So why shell out a wad of cash for a movie filled with recycled gags and a boring plot (especially when we all have DVD players and hundreds of cable channels showing movies around the clock for much less)?

That’s why I’m starting a new feature here called the “Poor Man’s Movie Review.” If you are poor like me, instead of wasting your hard-earned cash on the latest big studio release, I’m going to start spotlighting lesser-known films you can enjoy without breaking your piggybank. They might not have the big-name stars or fancy special effects that Hollywood blockbusters contain, but they can still entertain you.

To kick off the “Poor Man’s Movie Review,” I am spotlighting Ogre, a SciFi original movie about, well … an ogre. More specifically, it’s about the town of Ellensford, Pennsylvania, which has been plagued by an ogre since the mid-1800s.

Ogre

SciFi Original Movie

2008

Written By:
Chuck Reeves

Directed By:
Steven R. Monroe
(Sasquatch Mountain,
The Beach Boys: Nashville Sounds)

Starring:
Bo Duke, several castmembers from Freddy vs. Jason, a guy who looks vaguely like Stephen Tobolowsky

Is a poor man’s:
Shrek, Harry Potter, The Village

Best Quote:
“You are all at the mercy of the ogre now … and he shows no mercy.”
- Henry Bartlett

Why is the town plagued by an ogre? Well, you see, back in 1859, Ellensford was ravaged by disease. The opening shots of the film show a snow-covered mass grave and people being locked into quarantine. The citizens of Ellensford were dying and there seemed to be no cure in sight (this is the 1800s after all, where medicine mainly consisted of either covering people with leeches or sawing off limbs). When it seemed like all hope was lost, the town’s resident sorcerer Henry Bartlett (played by John Schneider, best known for his role as Bo Duke in the original Dukes of Hazzard TV show), offers to rid Ellensford of disease in exchange for being named town magistrate.

The citizens of Ellensford, assuming that Bartlett is “just a good ol’ boy never meaning no harm,” agree to his proposition. Bartlett waves around his glowing magic wand with his pentagram-marked hand and just like that, the plague is cast out of the town. However, the one thing Bartlett neglected to mention was that the disease wasn’t destroyed, it was magically transformed into a living creature – more specifically, an ogre. To keep the ogre from going batshit insane and destroying the whole town, every year on the winter solstice, one citizen of Ellensford has to be shackled in the town square and offered to the ogre as a sacrifice. Then, after eating the poor sap selected, the ogre returns to his lair, presumably to hang out with a wise-cracking donkey and a smooth-talking cat dressed like Zorro.

This annual ritual continues in Ellensford to the present day. The citizens are basically frozen in time; they no longer age and all look exactly like they did in 1859. Every year another one of them is sacrificed, which has slowly dwindled the town’s population down to only a handful of people. The outside world believes that the town is simply a myth; occasionally, small clues are found by hikers, but the world at large has forgotten about Ellensford. The citizens of Ellensford are stuck in the town – if they wander too far outside the perimeter, they dissolve into a bright light and disappear forever.

However, four young punks (two guys, two girls) begin trekking through the woods looking for this ghost town. Being carefree douchebags in their 20s, the four inadvertently release the ogre, who decides to forget about the whole “one citizen per year” agreement and instead goes on a killing spree, disemboweling anyone who gets in his path. The outsiders and citizens of Ellensford decide it’s finally time to stand up to the monster and rid their town of this curse once and for all (if only they had decided that back in 1859, they could have spared the 149 poor schlubs who were offered up as sacrifices).

This leads to some great ogre fight scenes and even a Harry Potter-style sorcerer battle involving Bartlett’s daughter Hope, who learned magic from her dad (it’s always nice to see fathers and daughters bonding, even if it is over the black arts). I won’t ruin the ending for you, but needless to say, it is CGI-tacular.

Many of you may be wondering what exactly the ogre looks like. Sadly, he looks nothing like Donald Gibb, the man who played Fred “Ogre” Palowakski in the classic 80s comedy Revenge of the Nerds. Basically, the ogre in this film looks like the lovechild of an orc from the Lord of the Rings trilogy and a baboon (as you can imagine, he’s a handsome fella). Thankfully, he decides to keep his ogre-bits covered with a loincloth, but other than that, he is au naturale.

The special effects are about what you would expect from a SciFi original movie. The ogre is obviously CGI-ed, the quality of which is probably 10 years behind what you would see in theaters these days (and probably not even as good as what your average film student could produce on his iMac). The sorcery in the movie is equally as bad – it mainly consists of bright white lights washing over the screen anytime something magical happens.

The story is obviously quite ridiculous, but honestly no more ridiculous than the average horror movie. The plot and dialogue all move along at a steady pace and while the story is quite predictable, it is still well-scripted and entertaining (besides, the concept of the film alone more than makes up for the cookie-cutter plot). According to IMDB, Ogre is the first screenplay written by Chuck Reeves, which makes it even more impressive that the script doesn’t suck.

The acting in the film is actually solid, too. All of the actors were able to deliver their lines convincingly and they are giving much better performances than you see in a lot of SciFi original movies. (I’m talking about you, Alien Apocalypse – a movie so shitty and with so many poor performances that even Bruce Campbell couldn’t save it.)

I’m not going to try to convince you that Ogre is a classic film that deserves a place of honor on your DVD shelf, but if you stumble across this movie on SciFi one night, it’s worth checking out. I mean, it’s about a giant ogre that eats villagers. Seriously, what else do I need to say?

Random Thought of the Week:

Happy birthday, Mom!

Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. You can contact him at murphyslaw@hobotrashcan.com.


You can register for an online paralegal school and get yourself your very own online paralegal degree without having to leave home, and proper online paralegal certificates are just as legitimate as a normal one.

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Hobo Radio – It’s a bird, it’s a plane …

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  • Introduction
  • Superhero Movie
  • Iron Man
  • The Incredible Hulk
  • The Dark Knight
  • Step Brothers
  • “Ooh Girl! (An honest R&B song)” by Mike Polk

Week 45 Spotlight: It’s a bird, it’s a plane …

While Superhero Movie, the latest offering from the brain trust behind the Scary Movie franchise, is sure to be awful, it gives Brian and Joel Murphy a good excuse to take a look at some of the other big superhero movies on the horizon.

So this week, the Brothers Murphy share their thoughts on Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk and The Dark Knight. They even throw in a conversation about Step Brothers, the summer comedy staring the dynamic duo known as “Shake and Bake,” Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly.

Which superhero movies are Brian and Joel excited about? Why are Star Wars fans protesting Superhero Movie? Who the hell is Iron Man? The answers to these questions and more lie within this week’s show.

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Overrated – Your gambling prowess

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Ned Bitters

This week’s inductee into the “Overrated Hall of Fame” is … your gambling prowess.

Yes, I’m talking about you, Mr. Just Back from Vegas and I Won Large at the Craps Table, and you, Mr. I Knew the Bears Weren’t Gonna Cover Against the Lions, and you, too, Mr. March Madness Bracketologist. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve just scored a couple of hundred bucks on some meaningless mid-season Dolphins game, and now the rest of us non-gamblers have to endure the epic tale of your wagering coup, complete with your convoluted theories and bullshit tips.

I might be more apt to listen to your stories if you would be honest enough to share the other 997 stories about the times you lost. Those amusing anecdotes would give me great pleasure, which would make it somewhat easier to listen to you blowhards go on about your wins, which, fortunately for us bored listeners, occur about as often as Halley’s Comet. And trust me, staring at some faint dusty comet trail trumps your gambling story every time.

But in the end, gamblers always lose. Always. That’s why Atlantic City and Vegas have the most opulent (or tacky and crass, if you have any taste at all) hotels in the country. It’s why they can serve up free drinks and eight dollar steaks and offer swanky hotel rooms at Red Roof of Peoria prices. They know they can count on your crackerjack gambling expertise to help the keep the fountains lit and the casino owners up to their billionaire asses in foreign villas and Eliot Spitzer-priced poon.

All gamblers are full of shit, but the level of full of shitness is directly proportional to the amount of gambling lingo these loudmouths use. You’ve heard ‘em. They’ve got their bumps and their overlays, their hard eights and hard hands. They’ll drone on about the over-under and the vig. (They’re especially fond of that vig term, aren’t they?) I’ve found the best way to cut one of these lingo-laden stories short is to throw some of their words right back at them, such as, “Yeah, well I’ve got a hard six (okay, maybe five … and a half) which your sisters are welcome to double down on right now. And after that, I’ll show ‘em how to parlay.” That often effectively terminates the snooze-a-rama that is their unlistenable Victory in Vegas story.

While casino chumps are tough to contend with, the most insufferable stories might come from the sports gamblers. You never hear one word from these degenerates during the first 12 weeks of football season, because they conveniently forget to share the tragic tales of their weekly one-point losses. But let them catch a break in week 13, and Monday at work will entail 20 minutes of listening to how they knew that Carson Palmer was due to get hurt, or that a freak snowstorm was going to hit San Diego, or that an addled Joe Gibbs wouldn’t know the new ice-the-kicker-before-a-field-goal time-out rule (okay, that one was kind of predictable). Your coworker thinks he’s the new Jimmy the Greek, but you know he’s still Steve the Embellishing Asswipe from Accounting.

As I write this, we’re in the thick of March Sadness, the NCAA’s annual infliction of sports pain on those of us smart enough to know how stupid the sport of basketball really is. (See the Overrated Archives for more on this.) And I know, dear reader, that you have filled out at least one bracket. And you have told some unlucky schmoe the reason for every single one of your picks and why you are dead certain that (college powerhouse that graduates about eight percent of its players) will win it all this year. And I assure you that your listener was either, One: Not even listening, because he was just waiting for you to wind down so that he could tell you the nail-biting classic story of his bracket picks, or Two: not even listening because his mind was consumed with locating the nearest sharp object that would allow him to puncture his jugular and end the torment you were inflicting upon him, torment that sounds something like “… so I figures that Austin Peay plays a helluva perimeter game, so I got them beating East West South Texas State AM&N, who are kind of small up front and can’t post up real good …”)

And let’s not forget the group that might be the most pathetic of all gamblers: Lottery winners They, too, are afflicted with the inability to discern whenever a listener could give two shits (or four shits, if we double down!) about how they “hit” last Friday by “boxing” the “pick four.” (They’ve got lingo, too. It makes them feel smart, which is important, as you have to be pretty fucking stupid to play the lottery every week.) Their stories always end with the amount of money they won. “… and that bitch paid out five hunnerd!” I wouldn’t mind listening to these stories if they would complete the story arc with the missing info. You know, info such as, “… which means I’m only down $2300 this year. But I’m gonna get even ‘fore long, because I know my daughter’s birthday is due to hit, which is why I’ll spend $40 bucks at the liquor store next payday, which will mean two fewer birthday presents for my daughter when I lose a-fucking-gain.”

Keno players make me laugh more than any other gambler. These bubbling-in yahoos actually have theories and systems that they think will beat a statistically stacked game of completely random chance developed by genius statisticians. They even give you the ridiculous odds on the back of the Keno card, but since most hardcore gamblers are probably too stupid to read, I guess those odds go unnoticed. One night I had to feign interest in the Keno theories of a bartender who looked me right in the eye and swore to me that she had a system that left her in the black every night. I would have laughed in her face and called her a liar, but she was decent looking, so I just listened and drank the free beers. I don’t recall seeing her win while I was there, and in those days, I put in some serious hours in bars.

Yes, every gambler has that one winning story they get to tell every six months, and every story is mind numbingly tedious and tiring. And we just have to stand there and take it and not call them on their bullshit. The gambling stories I’d really like to hear could be told by the dealers, the croupiers and the casino owners. Wouldn’t you just love to hear the owner of the Bellagio go on and on about the hardon-inducing pleasure he gets from watching the endless stream of delusional dollar-dumping dumbfucks march into his casino to hand over wads of their hard-earned cash? Wouldn’t it be great to listen to an oddsmaker and a bookie tell their stories – through choking fits of laughter – of how they bankrupt college basketball experts (meaning deli workers, longshoremen and the like) every March?

If you are one of these blowhard betting braggarts, I have a proposition (yes, a bet … drool drool) for you. Keep an honest tab of your gambling wins and losses for an entire year. I would be willing to bet you that by year’s end, you’ll be deep in the red. Name your price, and I’ll take that bet. You can even throw in some pushes, parlays and let-it-rides if you want. I don’t care, because I know I’ll win, and when I do, you have to promise me one thing. You’ll stand there and listen to my stupid fucking story about how I won the bet. For a hard eight minutes.

Ned Bitters is, in fact, overrated. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

Outside of the In-Crowd – Four bad movie you must see lest I engage you in some serious hyperbole

Outside of the In-Crowd No Comments

Courtney Enlow

I pride myself as being a scholar in all things pop culture. So if my self-awarded doctorate in awesome things (ie: opinion) means anything to you, please, listen to me on this one bit of knowledge I’m about to drop here: bad movies are pretty rad.

That probably didn’t elicit the gasps of shock or the ah yes-es of forgotten agreement I’d hoped, but I’m sure you all agree. Bad movies are kind of amazing. Whether you watch them with friends over beers and Pizza Rolls (*raises hand*) or alone in secret, you must admit that nothing gives you more joy than those often expensive bits of delight committed to celluloid, those filmed acts of self-congratulation, those tributes to the human spirit and the dreams of fame and wealth. Bad movies are absolute brilliant ridiculousness. I celebrate them. And I encourage you to do so as well.

I remember being seven or eight years old, sitting on the brown carpeted floor of my Aunt Jeanne’s bi-level on a Saturday morning watching a peculiar TV show featuring a film scene involving a bunch of bikers attending a funeral (one of whom was a chick pulling her bra out of her shirt and placing it on the casket). At the bottom of the TV screen was a silhouette of seats, a gumball machine, some guy and a thing with a basket on its head. Oh, some of you are absolutely overjoyed at the reference I’m making. Others of you knew two paragraphs ago that this is where I was heading. Most of you have no idea what I’m talking about and tuned out right around sentence number two, certain that this would be two weeks in a row that I discuss Road House at length.

Yes, twas that day that Mystery Science Theater 3000 changed my life forever, and despite the titular warning, this is not the part in which I engage you in unnecessary superlative speech. It’s absolute fact. This one moment lead me to a lifetime of making references no one else my age (or older, for that matter) understood, of having a deep love of movies made for slightly more money than I paid for school textbooks that year, and of boys not being all that attracted to me because I liked weird things.

I still remember the day I found out MST3K was cancelled. It was just before my birthday in 1999. I cried. My mom happened to be in the basement doing laundry and attempted to look understanding, but mostly appeared confused/concerned that her beloved daughter was so distraught by the cancellation of a television show. Eight plus years later, my MSTie status is undying and my love of brilliantly terrible filmmaking is without end. While my friends and I may never be anywhere near as funny as Joel/Mike and the ‘bots, we do what we can, and I want to share a few of our favorites with you. [Note: It is with a heavy heart I must disclude any and all films featured on MST3K or riffed by the Rifftrax fellows (save one, see below) or Cinematic Titanic, as I am generally unable to watch or think of these films in their unriffed form. So sorry, no Manos. You'll understand. Or you won't. In which case, shhhhhh. I'm very busy.]

4. Road House

Oh yeah, I’m going there again. Fans of this column (ie: my dad and my friend Megan) already know of my profound love for the movie Road House and its Zen philosophy of being nice whilest ripping someone’s throat out with your bare hands. Tenderness. I spent a large portion of my last column discussing this film, so I won’t bore you. But seriously you guys, pick up a twelve of PBR and watch this movie. You won’t be sorry.

3. Fear

When one thinks of great filmmaking, one thinks of beautiful cinematography, sharp smart writing and clever unique storytelling. I think of scenes involving a roller coaster fingerbang sequence. That is great filmmaking. Fear is one of the 90s-est movies of the 90s, only out-90s-ed by Reality Bites, and even that is only by an Ethan Hawke greasy hair. Like many beautifully cheesy flicks, this one has a great soundtrack (featuring The Sundays and Toad the Wet Sprocket, to name a couple) and future superstars (Reese “Future Oscar Winner” Witherspoon and Mark “No Seriously Do Not Mention the Funky Bunch in My Presence, I’ll Cut You” Wahlberg) and a premise most suitable for a Lifetime Moment of Truth made-for-TV movie. Marky Mark meets sweet teen Reese at a Seattle rave that’s almost too 90s for the 90s and proceeds to fall madly/creepily in love with her, kill her best friend, rape her other best friend (Sam Micelli, no!), behead her dog and try to kill her whole family. Oh and again, he fingers her on a roller coaster. Great America indeed.

2. Glitter

Okay, I said I wouldn’t mention movies that had already received the riffing treatment, but as Mike “Mike Nelson” Nelson and Mary Jo “Pearl Forrester” Pehl didn’t riff this until I’d already seen it some four hundred times, I’ll include it. You’ve no doubt heard whispers of how awful this movie is, but it’s genuinely one of the most entertaining movies I’ve ever seen. A wooden Mariah Carey is Billie Frank, a club singer in the very aughtesque 80s (“staying true to the period of your film is absolutely overrated” I imagine the filmmakers saying over appletinis and weed) who has a quick and easy rise to the top, though the subject of her racial ambiguity is brought up at random for no reason from time to time. I think we’re supposed to believe this is an obstacle, though it hinders her in no way. Best line, as spoken by the stereotypically flamboyant Eurotrash video director: “We ask ourselves, is she white? Is she black? We don’t know. She is exotic. I want to see more of her breasts.” No really, that’s a line from the movie. It’s sometimes a broad parody, sometimes an ABC Family drama, always terribly wonderful. Also, Mariah has a sparkly gash on her shoulder at all times that is never explained, but I like to think she was mauled by pixies.

1. The Crush

Best movie ever? Yeah no. Probably not. But it’s up there. Cary Elwes is Nick, a stunningly handsome sometimes British journalist who cannot write, but doesn’t let that stop him from being a famous loose cannon in the publishing world (this is all dropped on us in like two scenes). He needs a place to live and chooses the guest house of a rich family with a psycho Lolita daughter, Adrienne, played by Alicia Silverstone. Fans of Elwes know our man has never quite mastered the non-regional American dialect, so every time he says her name it is quite obviously ADR’d and still at different calls her what might be “Darian” or “Ariel” or something. Most often however, she is met with a forced “EEEEE-dree-ehnn” that sounds like he’s saying it from a bathroom miles away. EEEE-dree-ehnn is fourteen and not subtle and tells Nick in not so certain terms she wants him to stick it in her. He says no, but he kind of considers it. Throughout the film she vandalizes Nick’s car, attempts to murder Nick’s girlfriend by emptying a wasp’s nest into her dark room and beats herself up and accuses Nick of raping her. In a moment of absolute insanity and total crazy-awesome, it is implied that she steals a used condom from his trash and liberally applies its contents to her nethers to really make the allegation stick. That’s commitment and I’m still amazed that got past the MPAA. Amazing. Anyway, after a big climactic end fight scene involving a carousel, EEEE-dree-eehn gets committed and turns her attentions to her psychiatrist and Nick’s girlfriend overcomes her stings and swells and she and Nick live semi-Britishly ever after. Amazing.

This is by no means a comprehensive list. These are merely my four favorite movies to get drunk and watch with friends. So watch them, or I’ll be forced to bore you with detailed descriptions of how great they are, complete with dramatic readings of my favorite scenes. Feel free to email me any suggestions because as long as there are Blue Moon and Pizza Rolls on this earth, I will always be up for a bad movie night.

* Oh and because I love them (and I am in Mike Nelson’s MySpace Top 8, NO BIG DEAL) do please check out Rifftrax and Cinematic Titanic. The former is headed up by MST3K head writer/host from episode 513 on (and no I didn’t need to look that up) Michael J. Nelson and often features Kevin “Tom Servo” Murphy and Bill “Latter Day Crow” Corbett, as well as many amazing guests (including Neil Patrick Harris, squee). Cinematic Titanic consists of MST3K creator Joel Hodgson, Mary Jo Pehl, Frank “TV’s Frank” Conniff, Trace “OG Crow” Beaulieu, and J. Elvis “OG Tom Servo/Dr. Erdhart” Weinstein. You can find them at rifftrax.com and cinematictitanic.com, respectively. I have nothing to do with either, I’m just slightly obsessed and sharing the awesome with you fine people.

UPDATE: I just realized that I am dumb. Road House has been Rifftrax-ed, and was in fact the first ever Rifftrax. I literally just watched it two weeks ago and somehow spaced. I swear that I do not drink heavily before writing these. So that’s two movies on my list that have received the Riff-treatment. A solid “whoops.”

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

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