MY TEACHERS: JABBERWOCK & ROLL

 My 8th grade year, 1984-1985,  was spent at Kenosha's Washington Jr. High.  A building that now has gotten the knock down and rebuild treatment.  I suppose it was due in some way, as it was first constructed in 1920.  But still, that brick & mortar construction complete with neatly placed marble, and an early 80's addition that extended out into a vacant lot will be missed.  I will have to ask around if its twin building, McKinley Jr. High, is still in existence. 

Or was it Lance?  I think it was McKinley. 

Anyhoo.  In 1984-85, my English class (not grammar, but Lit in this case) was taught by Mrs. Bergquist.  I remember her to this day because she did this killer reading of Lewis Carrol's Jabberwocky, a genius piece from Through the Looking-glass, and what Alice Found There.  She read it with such enthusiasm and vigor.  She conjured a low throw-down to her voice that brought the words to magical life:

"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

did gyre and gimble in the wabe"

It caught me off guard, pricked up me ears, and brought my attention to attention.  She finished the piece in the same enthusiasm, and did it incredible justice.  The other kids in my class were either irritated or laughing at her, but they obviously didn't get it.  I didn't care.  I thought it was amazing. 

I remember a day or two after, when a friend and I were gathering our Trapper Keepers and grocery-bag wrapped textbooks together, another kid gave his unfettered review of Mrs. Bergquist's reading.

"It's so stupid", he belched.  "It doesn't even make sense."  Then he began his classy impression of the work and performance:

"It was all goobly! and the jingly mobes

were gimblin' and gamblin' up my butt."

My friend and I of course erupted into laughter for a couple of reasons.

1.  The routine was admittedly hilarious.

2.  It was ridiculous.  He was doing exactly what he was mocking Carroll's piece for doing.  Creating nonsense words for the purpose of prose. 

Regardless, Mrs. Bergquist's selection also brought something out of my dusty past.  As a kid, we had these Walt Disney book and record items.  You know the ones.  You listen to the record and hear dialogue, narration, and music as you followed along in the book. 

 We had Peter & The Wolf, Bambi, Jungle Book, among others.   But the one that stuck out for me was Alice in Wonderland.  Terrific illustrations inside, including the one sparked by my English teacher's reading that day.  The Jabberwock himself.  With his pear-shaped Tweedledee & Tweedledum body shape and creepily flaming eyes.  This image was a memory Mrs. B. brought storming back.

That Jabberwocky reading is among the most strong, and definitely most positive moments that I remember happening during my time at Washington.  I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking "If that's the best you got, the rest of it must have been pretty grim." 

You wouldn't be wrong.  It’s scattered all over this blog.

As an addendum:  After my brief 16 month swing through Waco, TX, circa Fall of 1985 through January 1987, Tremper High was the school I attended upon my return to K-Town.   That's right.  The High School alma mater of one Mark Ruffalo.

Now, Tremper was intentional.  My parents gave me the option of which two Kenosha Unified School District High Schools I would wish to attend.  All of my siblings attended Bradford.  And most of the kids that I knew and who would possibly remember me would have gone there too.  But my bestie upon leaving Kenosha in October of 1985 was still my best friend thanks to letter-writing and phone calls. He was also a 10th grader at Tremper. So I made that my choice. 

Bad idea. 

He met me at the campus and shook my hand on a cold January day. He showed me what was what and where was there on the Tremper campus.  Then we headed back to his place to hang out and watch a little television. 

And I never heard from him again. 

He dodged me in the hallways, and never returned my calls.  Don't ask me why.  I have a couple theories, but it has been almost 40 years, I don’t dwell on it.  Anyway, on that day that we re-connected, I dropped into the office to talk to the staff.  While I was in there, I saw a familiar face.  None other than my favorite English teacher from Washington, Mrs. B!

That didn't go well either. 

Despite my enthusiastic introduction and subsequent discussion, she didn't remember me.  Even though at most, it had been two years since I saw her last and was under her tutelage.  I was truly disappointed.  I only attended Tremper one semester, as my folks and I picked up the tent by spring and were headed North. Luckily, Linda & Don, (mentors, both) allowed me to stay with them until June, so I didn't have to start up fresh again at another school with 7 weeks left in the school year.

I recently called Tremper.  For some reason, I had been unable to remember Mrs. Bergquist's name. I know I had it firmly in my mind a few months back but last week Friday when I intended to begin this odd trip down memory lane, it was gone.   

A very sweet individual named Amanda from the Tremper student services office went above and beyond helping me out.  She dug up the 1987-1988 yearbook and assisted with deducing the name.  Even if I weren't writing this piece, Amanda's assistance would have been therapeutic, because my former English teacher's name's dance upon the tip of my tongue was driving me to the brink of insanity. 

Now if I could only remember the name of the Tremper instructor who got me off the hook on 10th grade Algebra.

THOSE QUIET MOMENTS: EAGLE RIVER?!!: MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND, 1983

There's a family transition story that has a minor legendary flair to it.  When Ma and my stepdad (again, term used for differentiation alone) were first "a courtin'", as it were, they were leafing through some photo albums.  Their breezing of memories lit upon a sunblasted photo of me with a tiny little fish on a beginner rod that was taken in the late 70's.

Dad recognized the pier I was standing on in the Kodachrome snapshot and let my mom know the familiarity.

He'd been there as well.  As a matter of fact, he used to live up in that area and was close friends with the owner.  As were my folks. Kismet!  Sandy of Eagle River, WI knew both of the families very well that were about to become a dramatic Brady Bunch and nobody knew this. 

EAGLE RIVER?!

 

Well.  St. Germain to be more specific.  But then I wouldn't be able to tie Jon Cryer and Hot Shots into it.  A genius scene included at the top of this piece written by Wisconsin's own Jim Abrahams. 

Ma arranged for her to bring her new beau up to Eagle River for the "introduction" on Memorial Day Weekend, 1983.  Of course, I was 11, so I would have to come with my towhead and everything.  

Now I remember it being a chilly gray Memorial weekend in Wisconsin.  That can happen.  Many rainy Memorial Day weekends have their moments in my memories.  Cold and Damp arrived at many functions over the years, whether they were big family get togethers or camping trips.   It didn't stop the festivities, of course.  Like I said, this was Wisconsin.  Let the beer happen.  

And some cheese.

There was a night I was left with Sandy's teenage son while my parents hit a local "tavern".  Upper midwesterners know that term.  It's key language.  J showed me how he utilized nunchuku, his drum set (that I found out in retrospect that my parents almost bought for me), and he took me out to a bar and grill for burgers and fries.  I gotta say, and I mean it with all that is me, no place has better comfort food than an out of the way, on the verge of the woods, hole in the tree, rural Wisconsin pub. 

Towards the end of the evening, he decided to curl up in his room and watch the classic nuclear sub drama Gray Lady Down.  Not really interested at 11 in high tension military hardware dramas, I retreated to my constant companion, the comic book. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, very late, I heard a shriek from Sandy.  I was about to get out of bed to see what was going on in this nifty lakefront property in the wee hours of the morning.  It was about the time that my socks hit the carpet that I heard Sandy's trademark uproarious laughter.  Everything was alright.  I rubbed my eyes and rolled back into bed. 

Hours later, I had to use the facilities.  It was very early.  Pre-dawn.  I ambled down the steps, shuffled past the kitchen, turned the corner and headed toward the restroom just off of the living room.  It must have been the only non-bedroom john in the house, otherwise one wouldn't have needed to make that jaunt.  With my eyes half closed, I began to do what I came here to do, when something shuffled next to the toilet.  In the dim light, I couldn't tell what it was, and I was scared shitless. I stumbled backward into the sink, nearly urinating all over the place in the process. It struggled to stand and shuffled out toward me. 

A white-tail fawn. 

Everything was fine.  Sandy had a rep as a wildlife rehabilitator, and all that late night howling was her excitement at someone dropping off an orphaned whitetail deer baby.  She took him in, got him healthy, and I believe Henry, as he was named, became a regular on Sandy's gorgeous lakefront property.   As a sidenote, when we moved to 21st Street in Kenosha, it became evident the area was too small and confining for Ginger, the wonder dog, and my heart was broken as she was retired off to Sandy's place.  Where Ginger could run like she did all those years when we lived "out in the county".  She lived her best life with Sandy. 

I've got more to say about Ginger in the future.  She deserves much more than a series of supporting performance mentions.  I promise, I'll get there, girl.  You've earned that much.  It's just that I need to do right by you.   

Anyway, it was said Ginger and Henry became fast friends.  I wish I could have seen it.

There's not enough stories like that. 

BOUND TO THE PAST: SHOPPING AND READING WITH ME MA

I have vivid core memories (seem to be thinking on these a lot lately) of riding around with my Mom pre-kindergarten as she ran errands.  Hustling about town to my pediatrician (Kenosha legend, Dr. Heck), the dentist, Jo-Ann Fabrics, Kohl's grocery stores, K-Mart (they had that nifty grill in the center of the store, ya know!)

Anybody remember Cal's Roast Beef?  Kind of like an Arby's when they didn't have the meats yet?  I don't remember what it is I ate there on lunch visits, but I still have the little Looney Tunes comic book that came with one of those meals.  See the title image up above.  I still like to leaf through it. I still love the Looney Toons to this day, and that'll never change.  I grew up reading comics, and the combination of the two is something I think is pretty cool.  It's a keepsake, and bordering on heirloom, as far as I'm concerned. 

We ate silver dollar pancakes at the unfortunately named Sambo's.  Kind of like Denny's, but I don't remember K-town having a Denny's.  I remember the backlit pictures of the little boy and his tiger (reminiscent of Jungle Book) that adorned the wall above the window to the kitchen between menu items.  It eventually changed to the tiger only.  Click on the video below for some history. 

Anyway.

As I've mentioned before, Mom was a huge supporter of her kids reading because it would mean you were wicked smaht.  At a Kohl's grocery trip, shortly after Dad passed, she bought me one of those miniature staple-bound impulse buy biographies of John Wayne.  Was I a John Wayne fan?  No, I had seen one film of his before Dad died and it was the 1977. flick, The Shootist.  That stung shortly after seeing it, as Wayne played a gunslinger battling cancer in his last days, and the proximity of painful fact was not lost later.

I'd sit in the chill fall air with my back against the garage that Dad used to work on rebuilding the Ford (Ol' Abe), and the ancient tractor (Josephine) he had.  The shop was adjacent to the backyard, and had me facing west and reading the little book, learning what I could and enjoying the black and white photos of John Wayne, knowing nothing else about him. I felt like I needed to do that to draw a little closer to the old man. 

I knew Dad loved The Duke, and having that knowledge I carried the book around in my back pocket until it came apart.  A talisman, of sorts.  Mom shared stories of Dad's John Wayne fanhood with me.  Another one of those movie connections that I carry around. 

I guess The Duke was a putz in real life, but I didn't know that at age 9. 

I've already discussed Ma and the Paperback Exchange in the oft repeated Salem's Lot story.  Click on that if you've been living under a rock in terms of this blog and are unfamiliar. 

Ma bought me books at rummage sales all the time.  George Llanos' Sharks and H. David Baldridge's Shark Attack (250,000 copies in print!)  These were books that were obviously long-read and published during the post-Jaws mania.  I loved her for that shit.  Still have them.  Priceless little items.  There's a picture in the photo array in the center of Sharks that Frani thinks looks like the shark is smiling. 

She's not wrong.  I think that fish was posing.

I could list the books bought and read to me during my childhood (some I still have) such as the Road Runner little kid books like A Very Scary Lesson and Tumbleweed Trouble or the Winnie the Pooh ones, that I mention here, but I don't want to bore you.  How about the classic comic book paperback adaptation of The Empire Strikes Back that I kicked this series off with some years back, or the Batman book and record combo that I think I irritated her into buying for me.  Check it out below if you got 15 minutes.

 

I could be a pain in the ace.  Ma, I love you, and I'm categorically sorry.

Today, I just want to give props to my Ma for the sharing of the written word.  She was a reader in a major way and thank the lord she passed it on down.

THOSE QUIET MOMENTS: UNDER THE SKY

Photo by Gregoire Jeanneau on Unsplash

Sometimes when I take my dogs out at night to use the puppy restroom, I take a long gander up at the sky.

And I often fixate on Mars.

There's been talk by rocketheads for decades about an expedition there.

But what if something went wrong?  What if there was no return from the red planet?

Looking up, that grips my chest.  It takes my breath away a bit.  Even though I won't even remotely approach being in that situation, someone else may be.  I know that in the big picture of the galaxy, in the chessboard that is existence, Mars is in the square right next to us. 

A goddamn neighbor, really.

So that puts things in a darker perspective.  In and amongst the monstrous maelstrom that is the universe, we are all but an infinitely insignificant dot in a massive pointalism painting.  A grain of sand in a vast beach.

So, with the incredible size of our current political situation, peppered with the apocalyptic fuel of what despotism and authoritarianism may mean to all of us, including mutually assured destruction, it all seems so...

petty. 

It means nothing in the grand context of the universe.  

The wrong side of history?  Who will be reading that book in 1,000 years?  And as I'm still gazing up, maybe still at Mars, maybe a guest appearance by Jupiter, I realize it.

I'm terrified.

Horrified by my own insignificance.  

And when my thoughts go down that rabbit-hole, I don't have the slightest clue on how to dig my way out. 

Its been asked.  "What does all of this mean, this life?"

Does it matter?

You have figures crushing other people, inflicting hurt and loss for their own gain.  Dancing to an evil song with its notes written on the sheet music of the wrong side of history, indeed.  Taking us back instead of forward, pockets filling as they step on the throats of others, the helpless, the innocent, who they profit from regardless.  These people are elected to represent us, to benefit us.  And they take it to the bank.  A bank they can't take with them.

And if they were to do the unspeakable.  To hit the launch codes, to be the matching hand that is needed to hold the other key to make nuclear war possible, don't they see the stupidity?

Nothing gained. 

Just a flair on Carl Sagan's Pale Blue Dot that wouldn't be noticeable anywhere in the cosmos. In the event of the remote possibility that there were an intelligent and sentient being out there to witness it? It would be nothing more than what a sunstorm looks like to the rest of us. 

And we were lucky enough on this sphere to be given awareness, life; life that grew from the lowest levels.  Life that figured out the wheel, the boat, languages, the printing press, commerce, science, medicine, the telephone, television, and eventually?   

Religion and Politics.  Climate ignorance.

And we are capable of destroying thousands of years of human history, over what?  Profit?  Protection from accountability?  We have the first trillionaire, and he's not capable of even the most remote displays of philanthropy.   Somehow this country elected TWICE a guy with designs on nothing but self-improvement, and avoiding being held responsible.   We may be teetering on the brink.

I'm not even coming close to saying we are the only living beings out there....

But what if we were?  

We could wreck it all on account of a handful of overpampered despots who want to have it all.  We all fight, and we all lose due to the thinking of a few.

We are the stewards of that existence?  In all of that infinite eternity out there, we may fuck it all up because of human vanity and greed.

And the only record of us would be the recording thats headed out toward the heliosphere aboard Voyager 1 that stopped its time capsule before Reagan took office.  And really, that's appropriate.  It was the Reagan administration that started the spiral we're in now.  A slow rambling gait, that is now in a full-on sprint towards the cartoon character kakistocracy that is now in the driver's seat. Anyway, that space probe that is so far away, it can't be seen.  And it signal takes 22 hours to get here and a ridiculously powerful antenna to translate its information.

That's what I think about under the stars at night. 

VINYL DESTINATION: JOURNEY - "ESCAPE" hit 45 this week

 45 years ago this past week, Journey's Escape was released.  I have dipped frequently into the well lately for 'core' memories, and I guess I'm doing so again here today.  When we lived on Lichter Road in Kenosha County in the early 80's, I hung out in the basement a lot.  My sister Pee Wee's bedroom was off the "rec room", where I played quite often.  There are many singles I can recall either vibrating through the walls, or hearing at full blast (depending on if she had the door open or not).  Those include Eddie Money's Shakin, Cheap Trick's I Want You to Want Me, Flock Of Seagulls' I Ran, often on repeat.

But one probably had more miles on those vinyl grooves than the others and that was Journey's Who's Crying Now?.   This was a morose and melancholy ballad that often made me feel sad, which was probably the track's goal.  Combined with the time period I was living in and feelings I was dealing with, it was often haunting, and is one of those cuts that can take me back to that gut feeling if I hear it now. I've babbled about that before.

Who's Crying Now was wailing through the halls of our residence for days before Escape's release, as it was common 80's practice to drop a single before an album's release to build radio momentum and fluff potential record sales.  Realize now, one of the all-time great LP openers, Don't Stop Believin' starts off the record!  They went with Cryin' as the first single.  Weird.

All of that being said, Escape fits together with REO Speedwagon's Hi Infidelity as a quality power pop album from the same era without a weak song.  A real one-two punch.  Despite the fact that Don't Stop Believing and Open Arms both hail from Escape, my favorite track is Stone in Love.  I would call it a 10/10 song if not for that endless instrumental refrain that drains the cut of its rockin' momentum.  Never liked that about it,  but I can live with it.   

Now, Escape isn't wall-to-wall bangers like Hi Infidelity, but it is close.  At the same time, REO's album didn't spawn a damn video game either.  

THE SPECTRUM FILES: SAM NEILL

 

As a kid, I saw the final conflict on Spectrum. Sam Neill played Damien Thorne, the embodiment of evil in the finale of The Omen trilogy with such charisma and vileness that I was kind of scared of the actor for years to come.  I still shudder at the sentence: "Disciples of the Watch...."  The same effect was had on me by Powers Boothe due to his performance as Jim Jones in The Guyana Tragedy.  They both could come across with that smile and voice, and with the slightest of facial gymnastics become something else entirely, the beast.  It was obvious from that early appearance, Neill was a skilled thespian. 

 But Neill went on to play many great roles that made him endearing to me. These are just a few of many, but there are Jurassic Park, In the Mouth of Madness, and of course, one of my personal favorites, The Dish with Patrick Warburton. The Dish is of the great underrated films of the 90s. Neill's understated wisdom and warmth were the anchor to a motion picture that deserves re-evaluation. 

I’m so sad to see him go. even though he frightened me so intensely as Damien Thorne, which has him firmly locked in my core memories.  The change in my heart was so dramatic, that it’s worth noting here. It takes a special actor to be able to bridge that range so effectively and consistently. 

Rest in peace, Mr. Neill, you were a great actor and from what I’ve read, for all intents and purposes, a hell of a person too.  He told great stories with that Australian twang, and that fact is well noted.  It’s been just a short while since I woke to this sad news this morning, but I’ve already heard many testimonies of the quality of Sam’s nature.  He will be strongly missed. 

DVDs: THEY'RE ARCHIVES

 Photo by Myke Simon on Unsplash

It ain't no secret that I collect a movie every now and then.  

Its amazing to me how quickly we've gone from VHS to streaming.  I was late to DVD, just like I was to CD.  In the late 90's, when every one was going to disc, I was still hanging on to my tapes.   I eventually made the jump.  I'm no tech-geek.  I was perfectly happy with the picture and sound quality of the DVD. Call me a dweeb, but I didn't see the huge quality jump everyone else was talking about when blu-ray came along. 

I really didn't. 

Now that 4K is here, (somehow that happened in concert with the death (or at least dying) of physical media), I actually can see the clarity difference, but it looks like it's almost too much.  I mean, a  movie isn't supposed to look like you're watching a super clear digital video.  The footage almost reminds me of HD soap operas. 

But that's what I saw as I watched Kick Ass on a 4k screen.  My first real take on it.  It looked like that hyper-real digital video.  Where was the grain?  The warmth?

Now most techlingers are gonna hassle me for that.  And they're entitled.  I've bitched in a previous piece on the growing tendency of boutiques to release classics on 4k only.  I don't have a 4k player.  They're pricy.  But here we are. I'll leave it at that, I don't need to revisit, but it does require mentioning. 

But people are acting like the DVD is as low in quality as they would complain about VHS when the DVD initially came out.  Please. Really?

Here's an additional gripe, as if I haven't already complained enough. 

They're dropping the supplementals. 

As the films are being upgraded, gaining in picture and audio quality as they make the skip up from blu to 4k, they're losing the bonus materials.  This hasn't escaped me.  Back when DVDs were banging on the door of the home viewing public, there would generally be supplemental material included, often to the degree of requiring a second (occasionally a third, Hot Fuzz, I'm talking to you!) disc.  Quite often, the distributors got so generous with the stuff that the sets would often be a necessary add to a film collection.  Just look at the bonus features on the basic 2 disc DVD releases of The Abyss, Network or All the President's Men.

This was the selling point!

To be fair, sometimes blus will do this.  Particularly in the case of a boutique release.  The local Pittsburgh PM magazine TV segments included on the blu-ray release of Just Desserts: The Making of Creepshow are things that will probably be lost to time outside of the producers vaults.  But this is becoming more and more rare.  

There are filmmakers that are adamant about including supplementals on their releases.  Guillermo Del Toro and Christopher Nolan are pretty forward about making it happen.  It's been obvious with the releases of Del Toro's Frankenstein and Nolan's Oppeheimer, that they give a damn about viewer experience.   Unfortunately, I don't think that will be the case going forward.. Streaming is a continued problem in this arena too.  Many times, original studio-level films produced by the likes of Netflix are not getting physical releases. 

Things can get lost to time.  There are examples of famous black and white era films lost due to their age and the lack of copies printed or restored, a la London After Midnight, Hollywood, and The Mountain Eagle.  The number of films being lost over the years from the silent era to the 50's is actually disturbing.  Take a look at this article from The Film Foundation. 

It's appalling.

 In the documentary Adjust Your Tracking, the point is made that many films that saw releases during the VHS era never made the jump to DVD.  This adds another layer to the growing ways that films can be lost.  Then there are films that only saw poor releases on DVD, and were never released again.  What happens to them?  

Are streaming services the savior?  What edition of the film are you seeing?  Is it the right frame rate? Is it color-timed properly?  Is it even the proper aspect ratio?

How long will it remain uploaded to that particular streaming service?

So, all of this has led me to believe that DVDs were an archive of sorts.  Generally a damn fine version of the film itself coupled with 2.0 or 5.1 Dolby sound.  Often a commentary by the filmmaker, stars or even film historians.  Current or archived making-of documentaries.  Interviews.  Trailers and radio spots. Very often, especially in the case of special series like New Line's Infinifilm, Fox's Five Star Series, and others, materials are included that bear some sort of historical connection to the film and it's era.  As they've made the jump to blu and 4k, these supplementals are generally not ported over, and rarely are new ones made, with the exception of disc companies like Criterion, Shout!, Arrow, Kino Lorber and others.  However, these boutiques seem dedicated to genre films from the past, narrowing the possibilities.

Not all films being made these days get disc releases. Streaming's relationship with theatrical has caused this. It's quite disappointing.  It's not a film, but a true crime is being committed in the fact that Mike Flanagan's masterful limited series Midnight Mass isn't getting a physical.  Flanagan has griped about the depletion of home media himself, and perhaps that has something to do with him making the move to Amazon.  

Will that resolve anything?

Not all that long ago, folks were shouting "Cut the Cord!" while dropping their cable company and jumping on board the streaming train.  Just a handful of years later, everyone that creates original content to some extent has decided to create their own streaming service.  Therefore the access to their in-house creations will often be only released on that channel.  No one can afford every streaming service, so this whole movement is arguably narrowing the individual production's audience size due to that factor.  Quite often, I forgot a movie even came out, and end up not seeing it.  The zone is flooded and I can't keep up.  

Let alone be a historian. 

It's easy to lose things in a maelstrom.

THE SPECTRUM FILES: NIGHTWING/THE RANSOM

I remember this having a killer tie-in paperback novel that had outstanding artwork.  I got rid of the Martin Cruz Smith (Gorky Park) tome before reading it.  I have since reacquired it (an old beaten, second hand paperback), with different and not nearly as cool art.  But the graphics are actually commensurate with its original mass market release as opposed to the film tie-in cover which matched the movie's poster.

  

Anyhoo, Nightwing  aired on Spectrum a plethora of times, has Lots of Native Americans in it, but unfortunately, they didn’t bother to cast actual Native Americans in the two key Native American lead roles. They were given to Nick Mancuso and Steven Macht. Nothing against those guys, they're terrific actors, but they are not Indians.

British legend David Warner is an absolute blast here playing it straight as a scientific Van Helsing, even though this is a bunch of malarkey.

 Other faces abound that showed up in late 70s and early 80s films, including Kathryn Harrold.  It is actually a really good story marred by poor special effects. As far as the Indian mysticism and mythology goes, I don’t know how much of it is realistic in any way, but the film is definitely worth a watch.  

Nightwing was a product of its time; it could’ve been worse considering it was made in 1979.  It holds up much better than I expected it to upon a recent rediscovery.

There is an exceedingly chilling scene where the Mancuso character finds that all the priests from his tribe have died in a hut set underground.  It’s very creepy.  

Back in the Spectrum days, I often confused it with another flick running on the pay-tv channel called Maniac.  No, no, no. Not the infamous film directed by William Lustig with the gruesome Tom Savini effects.  I've still not gotten around to that one yet.  I might have some residual trauma from the big box VHS art threatening me from the shelves of Kenosha's 4-star video, that is responsible for that.  

This Maniac (also known as The Ransom and Assault in Paradise)  involved a psycho dressed in traditional Native American garb, running around a resort town  killing folks, asking for funds in order to be stopped.  Oliver Reed (great choice, there) is brought in to stop them.  It also starred Deborah Raffin, Stuart Whitman, and James Mitchum.  It seems to be quite lost to time, at this point.  Although it can be found on Tubi. 

Both films bring in levels of intrigue and the politics of wretched unfairness to the indigenous peoples to the scripts.  Though The Ransom leans more heavily into extremist violence, while Nightwing goes with mysticism and ancient rites.  

 

An interesting aside, the scores are compelling.  In Nightwing, Henry Mancini (The Pink Panther) blends suspense with compelling Native American themes.  Don Ellis does bring some similarities, but also feeds Starsky & Hutch styled action faire with waka-jawaka 70's guitar.  Sorry Mr. Ellis, Mancini wins the day.  Your film only came about 2 years before Mancini's, so era is no excuse.

Thanks to Spectrum, these films still exist firmly in my memory banks. 

VINYL DESTINATION: INNER SLEEVE

I discovered Inner Sleeve Records in 1987.  Just a couple of blocks away from the Wausau Center Mall, I preferred it to that latter establishment's Camelot Records and its candy-colored and neon environment with terrible in-store sound choices. 

Inner Sleeve was dark.  It was almost all vinyl.  The owner stood behind the counter and kept watch.  He didn't have a lot to say, but when he did, it made sense.  Despite the fact that Inner Sleeve carried everything, the store and its employees were dedicated to the off-the-beaten path musical choices.  They were alternative before alternative was a buzzword.  Their year end best of lists always contained bands like the Lime Spiders and Aztec Camera. You know, those 120 Minutes stalwarts. Bands whose waters I hadn't dipped my toes into at that point.  The Butthole Surfers' Hairway to Steven and Die Kreuzen's Century Days posters adorned the walls I walked past as I contemplated Fear's The Record on more than one day.  

I am quite sure I got some side eye for my purchase on the same payday of Iggy Pop's Pair records compilation of New Value, Soldier, & Party, along with Blackfoot's Strikes.  I've always been eclectic.

What Inner Sleeve had was the selection.  Holy Christ, looking back on it, I can't believe how much they had.  Despite Sleeve's anti-establishment environs, all genres were available, including best sellers. Guns n Roses, Poison, and Tracy Chapman adorned the same walls as The Pixies and Jane's Addiction.   It also had a pretty solid selection of used vinyl in the back right hand corner of the shop (Violent Femmes debut thanks, much)  Back catalog titles were in abundance so you were very rarely disappointed, or had to walk out empty handed if you went in there with a title in mind. 

The purchases I made there were in multitudes .  Music from all over the sound palette.  I still have my Replacements Tim that I bought there.  The same goes for Kenosha metalheads Screamer and their still coveted and cult classic debut, Target: Earth.  When Central Wisconsin hype machine Airkraft had their cover of Tommie James Midnight Confessions playing on midwest radio, I picked up the LP there.  I still have the receipt from that one.  I had to wait a few weeks for the out-of-print Let it Be from The Replacements, but I was able to get that one from Inner Sleeve. There were countless others.

I just hit the Sleeve last summer and acquired Bauhaus' compilation LP for Frani and the Deep Purple Burn CD I had been looking for, and damn, if he isn't hand- writing receipts the same damn way.  The prices remain lower than the average bear, and set so that including tax they come out to a round number.  It was that way in 1987, and remained in 2025.  

I don't think the owner remembered me last summer.  The shop's original location had apparently had a fire, and it has since moved closer to where the mall used to be, and is significantly smaller.  Stocked to the gills still, but nowhere near the room to move.  But the vibe is still there.  I talked to him briefly and mentioned that I still had receipts.  He wasn't shocked, and said that it happened all the time and folks drop by to show them to him. 

On the way out, he got my attention and said, "Hey. Since we have history, take one of these!" and handed me a poster celebrating the store's 50th anniversary coming up soon.   No surprise, the poster is a hell of a piece of art while still holding its reason for existence out to be admired. I may get a frame for it and find a place to hang it in the near future. 

It ain't quite what it used to be, (neither am I) but the Sleeve is still rocking, and Wausau's maven of music is still there piloting the plane.

And to quote Sam Elliot in The Big Lebowski, "I don't know about you, but I take comfort in that."

VINYL DESTINATION: DISNEY'S COUNTRY BEAR JAMBOREE

 I've had an upswell of core memories of late.   The 70's were rich in them, but sometimes I surprise even myself with what I have the ability to dredge up.  

We had one of those console hi-fi units in our living room back in the day.  Those things are an affordable collectible among retro technology enthusiasts even to this day.  You know the ones.  They doubled as a piece of furniture. Lengthy wood (or faux wood) units with a flat solid top. There was a lid you could pull up giving you access to a radio band and a turntable, and in the case of many, an 8-track tape player. 

These things are the best.  I just love 'em. 

The one we had in Somers, WI was pretty cool, and fairly loud.  My Ma used to listen to her Patsy Cline and Engelbert Humperdinck records on it.  It also blasted out the Old Man's Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash LPs.  Elvis Presley's Viva Las Vegas Via Satellite Live!.  Jim Nabors and Bing Crosby could be heard around the holidays.  One time, my sister Randee was trying to display the amazingness that was Queen's News of the World, but I was so terrified by that album cover that I couldn't process the genius. 

But, there was one record that ruled over all. Like the one ring.  The Precious.   It seems before I was born my parents had made a Florida trek and visited Busch Gardens and the legendary Disneyland while they were there.  On that little pilgrimage they picked up a vinyl copy of the tunes from the Disney Country Bears Jamboree stage show.  A collection of country western-based tunes performed by various famous Disney bears, it was truly entertaining.  This was when Disney was post-Computer Wore Tennis Shoes and pre-Beauty and the Beast/Pixar, so they were throwing Spaghetti at the wall, methinks. 

As a youthful little music enthusiast, I loved that record.  One track still sticks out to this day, and that was Blood on the Saddle, a Tex Ritter original performed by my favorite bear Big Al.  The whole thing can be enjoyed in the video below.  Just scrolling through the images in the clip brought back vivid memories of the photographs in the booklet contained within the album's gatefold.  The scroll also provided the nostalgia breeze I've become accustomed to while digging up those things that were once so familiar, but are now relegated to the back of the cerebrum while still surviving in my heart.

LATE TO THE PARTY: AARON SORKIN

Photo by David Everett Strickler on Unsplash

There's a couple movies that I've watched in recent years many, many times.  At least chunks of them, here and there, often enough that they combine to several full viewings. 

A Few Good Men & Moneyball. 

I've been aware of Aaron Sorkin's name, of course. Vaguely aware that he's a screenwriter of some renown, but his work goes back decades.  I kind of had him coupled with David Kelly for some reason. 

There is a reason that they go together that I was unaware of, however.

Cracklin' dialogue.

Another thing I was late to the party on is The West Wing.  Over the past couple of months, Frani and I have taken to watching the show.  Partially due to its word of mouth and historical episodic value, partly due to the current state of government.  The latter led to us wanting to see the oval office functioning like it probably should.  So we dug in. 

Damn.  The dialogue.  Coupled with the performances of Martin Sheen, Bradley Whitford, Allison Janney, Richard Schiff, John Spencer, and Rob Lowe, the shit comes to life.  So, I decided to look into teleplay artist Aaron Sorkin and was stunned by my lack of knowledge of a couple facts.  As much as I love A Few Good Men and Moneyball, I didn't even know who wrote the screenplays for them.  That's insane when you consider how many times Frani may have walked into our living room to those films dancing across the screen, or had them on as background noise, and asking "Are you watching that again? Why?"

I thought about it for a few seconds, and said something to the effect of "It's the dialogue, and coupled with these performers, these movies just pop for me, and always hit in a different way." 

Something like that.

Wow, it all made sense.  Something about Sorkin's dialogue just has an energy to it.  I love the West Wing for the same reason I love those two films.  It's kind of embarassing being the movie buff that I am, that I never really made the connection between these films and the writer.   Now when we finish our watch of Wing, there will be other things to dip the toes into, namely Rob Reiner's The American President, and a series that has come highly recommended by several close to me, The Newsroom.  

But eventually, I'll be bummed when it's all tapped out. 

But look how close I came to never knowing.....

LOOKING FOR LAUGHS: ORATORY RELAXATION

 I've written on here before about how stand-up comedy was a big part of my life in my youth.   It didn't just make me laugh though, it crawled inside my thought processes and often could bring me to a near state of relaxed meditation.  These folks weren't just funny as hell, but the way they could string words together was an art form. 

Some better than others, but nonetheless. 

During my Middle School years and into my senior year in High School, I was picking through the cut-out bins at Camelot Records at the Richland Mall in Waco, TX and the Wausau Center Mall in North Central Wisconsin for stand up albums.  I had accumulated the likes of Bill Cosby, Steven Wright, Howie Mandel, George Carlin, Billy Crystal, Robin Williams, Eddie Murphy and Steve Martin.  

Sometimes after my parents had gone to bed, I would grab my Panasonic Slim Line tape recorder and sit in front of the TV's speaker and record shit like Robert Townsend's Partners in Crime,  Joe Piscopo's Halloween Party, and any one of the Rodney Dangerfield's comedy specials that gave up-and-coming comedians a big audience before they broke.  These were my introductions to Sam Kinison, Robert Schimmel, Rita Rudner,  Andrew "Dice" Clay, Carol Liefer, Louie Anderson, and Bill Motherfuckin' Hicks. 

While living in Waco, I started the practice of lying down at bed time, in the dark, with the headphones of the Sanyo MGR60 pocket cassette deck my Dad had bought me as a gift firmly on my head.  The old man left the thing lying on my pillow to come home to after school one afternoon.  He had no idea what that little expenditure meant to me.  Particularly while living in Waco, with an even more accentuated amount of that solo self-introspection time. 

 I didn't even ask for the player.  He had just seen me fiddling around with that old standard Slim Line tape recorder my Mom bought me in 7th grade, with some cheap headphones in an attempt to listen to music privately.  It didn't work that great and he picked up on my failed attempts.  

But I digress.

I'd lay there, crawling towards sleep, with Bill Cosby's (or as W. Kamau Bell refers to him, "The artist formerly known as Bill Cosby" for obvious horrible reasons) To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With.   This album was an extended routine about two brothers lying next to each other in their apartment bedroom, whispering in argumentative fashion while fearing their old man coming in to beat their ass for failing to go to sleep.  

Now anyone who has a sibling or has had friends or cousins, et al, sleep over knows what this is like.  And the bit had a soothing sentiment to it.  

 

 I also lay there on other nights listening to Carlin.  Either Playin' With Your Head (the audio release of the HBO stand up special which I had recorded and repeatedly viewed) or Toledo Window Box.  Playin', particularly, was a tour de force of the man's domination of the English language.  His routines were so honed, so tight, there was nary a stumble of the tongue, much less an "uh.." to be found.  But the shit was so hilarious that you didn't realize you were in the presence of one of the world's all time greatest public speakers.  And that voice, that low, deep, yet slightly raspy tone could relax me even when talking about the funniest observations in existence.  It was only upon repeated listens that you realized that his speech was laser focused and error-free.

George could get me to shut it all down, focus on his genius, and fall asleep in a time where it was difficult.

 

 Billy Crystal's Marvelous! is another example of a comedy album that I could relax to.  Whether he was talking about libido in his youth, his flatulent grandfather, actors Yul Brynner or Edward G. Robinson, or doing impressions of his favorite boxers, an aged jazz musician, or his own character, Fernando, I loved it all.  The broad spectrum of places where humor could come from in his imagination was awe-inspiring and often touching.  There was a ton of fucking heart on this record, and it also made me unwind, and I recommend this semi-forgotten audio take of a video-recorded special as well.

Looking for Laughs, I guess in some cases, found me peace.

THOSE QUIET MOMENTS: ASPARAGUS HUNTING

Photo by Art Rachen on Unsplash

Late Spring, Somers, Wisconsin revisited. 

This goes back something like 50 years. 

Dad and I went asparagus hunting.  Yes, it is what it sounds like.  

We'd drive out to a rural train track area, tall conifers on either side, slight slopes rising from the tall grass to the tracks on the East and West sides of the iron thoroughfares.  

The asparagus grew close to the metal.  Dad and I walked along, Bob's frame leaning down with his pocket knife in his right hand grasping the stalk with his left.   He'd push the blade through the thick gree veggie with his thumb until it sliced the stalk, and then drop it into a paper bag.  I'd run along beside him, my hero, grabbing the tracks to feel for vibrations, (I feared the train much more than the old man did, after all he made his living loading cars on them for American Motors) and collecting shotgun shells that he allowed me to pocket.

I often found the glass electrical insulators from power lines laying around too.  With his cockeyed grin and a mop tousle with his free hand, he allowed me to keep those too. 

I can't stand the stuff now, but I loved asparagus back then.  We'd drive back home where mom would substitute it for the chipped beef in the gravy for the Wisconsin staple, "Shit on a shingle".  Or creamed substance on toast. 

God, I loved that stuff.   And I miss and love my Dad. 

This is what core memories are all about, brothers and sisters. 

CLICK HERE FOR COOL WISCONSIN ASPARAGUS INFO

THE WILLS WILDLIFE SANCTUARY: MY UPCOMING TONY SOPRANO MOMENT

Frani and I's favorite Sopranos moment is an early one.  When the ducks leave Tony's pool, and he begins to have debilitating panic attacks.  The way James Gandolfini performs a character so vicious and yet deserving of a smidgen of sympathy is a gift the man had that many don't.  God rest him. 

A couple of weeks ago as Frani and I were going through the nightly constitutional of taking the dogs out, something stunned us both.  For a couple of consecutive nights, we surprised a mourning dove, who could be heard chirping and fluttering up against the ceiling of the patio in a panic of sorts. I felt guilty both times, but was wondering what in the hell he/she was doing there well after dark. 

The answer came days later.  While I was at work, Frani sent me a text that made me smile.  In the upside-down guard of a weed-whacker resting against the wall of the patio, right outside Cameron's window, was a nesting mourning dove.  A few days later, another text came, this time Frani updating me that babies (or squabs) were peeking out from under the adult dove.  They weren't just building the nest, they were brooding. 

Bursts of research showed that the doves pick spots like this intentionally.  The ceiling of the patio provides excellent cover from assholes like Blue Jays. It's wonderful in its ability to provide shelter from inclement weather, which Texas occasionally has in the spring.  And human activity keeps away multiple types of predators. 

We learned a few other things.  How often they feed.  How long the parents will stay, leave, and return.  How quickly they will grow.  We've become invested in these little guys, and hope that they do well. The parents have left them overnight twice as of this point, still returning to feed them.  When we go out with the canines we can hear their alternating calls, which are probably alerts for the young, since they are almost the size of their parents at this point. 

Sadly, they will be leaving soon.  We've seen one jump to a neighboring shelf only to return when the parent came back.   It won't be long before they legitimately leave, and according to what I've read, it's a one-way trip, in which the male takes over for a couple weeks teaching his kiddos to forage, seek shelter, and fly. 

I just hope I don't turn into Tony Soprano when they do depart without return and have an aviary psychotic break. 

Here's a video that I made in honor of this wonderful little injection of hardwired yet feathered and gorgeous nature into our lives. 

ADDENDUM:    As of four days prior to this writing, January 3rd, the twins as we call them, have flown the coop.  It's made me sad in a sense, especially right away, but hold on a minute.  Every day, they've returned in some form or fashion.  A couple times landing in the yard pecking around.   Two other times, I awoke, and upon walking out to scout the yard before taking the dogs out, they greeted me from behind the mimosa tree.  They don't seem rattled at all when seeing Frani or I.  They're tentative, for certain, but far from skittish. 

I've seen the parents separate them, still feeding them, fly off with them, only to return with them later.  The father, stopping to drink from the shallow water dish I left out, jumps over to the babies to give them water.  He joins his partner hanging out from the chimney, Mama from the garage corner, to oversee the babies as they play, hop, and peck around in our yard.  I hope, for them, the back yard feels like home.  Because the parents' recurring appearances after the twins fledged, and watching the babies grow has made Frani and I love having them around. 

I've read that mourning doves can become accustomed and less fearful of friendly voices.  We've always spoken to the birds as sweetly and kindly as possible, long before we became aware of that fact.  

All of this seems to have brought us a little flutter of love that, at least for a while, brings some joy to parts of our days. 

ADDENDUM II:  Sunday, June 6 was the last day the doves were here.  It was very melancholic, almost bittersweet in how it all came about.  During mid-afternoon, I caught motion out of the corner of my eye that turned out to be one of the adult doves.  They swooped in to the back porch, where it all started, and even briefly lit upon the genesis of it all, the weed whacker's guard.  He/She then flew off into the sky.  

Shortly after, I did what Frani and I had been doing all week, grabbing the binoculars in order to survey the back yard looking for "the twins".  The Twins had been in an out of the yard all week, pecking, playing, being fed by their folks, leaving and returning.  Eventually just before dusk, the parents would show up. and the family would venture off together for the day. 

I didn't need binoculars this time.  By dinner, I looked out the back door to see one of the young doves sitting in the rock bed next to the sidewalk.  Exactly the same spot that one of the babies landed when they first fledged.  That first day, the fledgling hung out in that spot for a few hours before disappearing into the dark at sunset.  Fran and I were so worried about those two at that point.  The other fledged to the top of a propane tank just to the left of the nest, joining their twin at dusk. 

Fears were allayed.  They both returned the next day and for the week.  Until Sunday, that is.  

The baby continued to hang out in that rock bed for a couple of hours.  Being a worrywart, I approached him, softly asking if he was alright.  The young dove looked up at me and proceeded to just venture down the sidewalk and into the yard, under what Frani calls "the bee house", a wooden contraption meant to attract honeybees.  It remained there until just before dark.  At that point, the young dove flitted up to the fence, remaining there for about 15 minutes as the sun dipped.  

Then he was gone. 

Part of me thinks, naively or not, that it was a goodbye visit.  The parent checking in on the nest one last time.  The youngster returning to where he/she first set themselves after fledging.  One last spell under the bee house by the mimosa, where the twins spent the vast majority of their first week out of the nest. 

And then giving the yard one last going over from the fence before departing.  Leaving to join, as the reading showed, a flock of other younglings to begin their adventures.  

Be well, young doves, We have nothing but love in our hearts for you. Thank you for giving us a window into the wonder that is Mother Nature, and the beauty of the circle of life.  It is not lost on me that in this era of strife that we are consistently dipped in every time the news is turned on, that the opposite showed up on the patio.  With all of the harsh and ugly intrusiveness that our current culture is practicing, it was a joy to see such splendor flutter outside the window.  

In the form of the dove.  The symbol of peace.  

MOVIES I STAYED UP LATE FOR: THE SAVAGE FIVE

My first exposure to The Savage Five was during a late 1981 WGN TV theme week of martial arts films. I believe The Seven Deadly Venoms and The 36 Chambers of Shaolin were also included in this batch. As I recall, the Friday night flick of this particular week was the film I’m writing about right now. 

 In Kurosawa's The Seven Samurai, the plot line was driven by the anticipation of oncoming bandits, the preparation of the fearful villagers and recruitment of help to defeat them.  In The Savage Five the bandits are already there and doing damage from nearly the get-go. 

The Bandits attack this pacifist enclave, abusing everyone, robbing the businesses, committing murder, and eliciting sacrifices that are heartbreaking and unspeakable.  One of them displayed in an absolutely wrenching scene that is completely unlike the typical kung-fu flick victim faire; it's emotional and raw.

I grew up watching martial arts films on "Blackbelt Theatre" and the like as a kid. The frequency bred familiarity.  In this particular film,  I was moved by the far more plot-driven feel than the contemporaries I’d encountered.  However, the awful dubbing makes it very difficult to gauge the quality of the performances.  
I really don’t believe a lead villain was saying shit like: “Hey let’s take a look at what’s going on outside!”,  Just as a villager is helping an abused rebel down from a tree the villains had hung him from.


The facial expressions and expressive emoting during the dialogue however are easy to buy. 
John Woo’s future number 2 and 3, Ti Lung, and Danny Lee, respectively, and Kung Fu legend David Chiang lead a great cast guided by the master Cheng Cheh.  Beautifully shot, and wonderfully choreographed, but still minimalist, The Savage Five is arguably among the most grounded of the Shaw Brothers output, as its realistic narrative takes steps their more aspirational flicks never had the guts to take.

Out of all the Kung Fu movies of the 70's that blew up in the wake of Bruce Lee's Asian martial arts film explosion, Five is not among the highly regarded.  But for me, outside of Lee's oeuvre, it may be the strongest.  My memories of that early 1980's Lichter Road living room screening, which prompted my own side-kicking and air-punching along with Ti, David and Danny, are still strong to this day.  I'm sure my chop-socky aura is still floating in the air of that Southern Wisconsin living room.

MY TEACHERS: A HARD ONE TO FIGURE

Seventh grade was hard.  I felt like I was wandering onto another planet.  The first few days memories still have a tug on the gut.  I can remember nausea rumbling while hearing Taco's Puttin' on the Ritz on the radio in the morning waiting to leave for the city bus.  

Not only would I know absolutely no one as I traversed from elementary school to Junior High because of a district switch, I had to ride to school with very few kids my age, but a lot of adult strangers.   Many who talked to themselves.  Many elderly.  

Many crying babies.

It was all so intimidating.  A nice windy additive to the cyclone my life had been since Dad got sick.  The teachers were also a series of anomalies.  Particularly Mr. Malone. 

Dude was hard to figure.  He taught Social Studies, and he did know his shit.  But he was odd.  He'd go into these internal monologues when angered by a student's chatter, outright rudeness, or lack of classy behavior.  Mr. Malone would stare you down.  He would develop an evil, guttural chuckle and bitterly sarcastic grin as he dressed you down.  He'd narrow his eyelids and begin muttering to himself about failed psychologies; "I'm okay, you're okay...."   Flat out irritated by the immaturity of his 12 and 13 year old Social Studies students.  Us Current Events aspriationals. 

One day, because there was a little too much effort behind a yawn,  that ire was directed at me.  I got that treatment I had seen so many times before.  I was embarrassed.  I was downtrodden, and didn't want to destroy my school year.  This other outside shit, the strangers, the buses, the inner city school student body, often gang members (sometimes stoned) that I wasn't used to being around. 

The mocking.  The bullying.  The instantaneous violence. 

All that shit was too much already.  I didn't want to condemn my academics.  

This end I could control. 

So I went to visit Mr. Malone after class to apologize for the yawn. We spoke for a little while, talked it out a little.  He made it seem like we were good.  Then he said something to me, without a true facial expression, without a smile.

"You seem different from the rest."

That felt weird.  But I felt like I had accomplished what I needed to do.  Later in the year, when end of the day "clubs and groups" were formed, I joined Mr. Malone's hiking club.  Basically we walked as a group down to Lake Michigan and back.  As summer's frothy head deflated down to fall, it transformed into The Chicago Cubs Club, which corresponded to the Cubbies 1984 run at the playoffs.  Somewhere the North Shore boys hadn't been in decades.  The Cubs were better than hiking, an activity that gave Tom Murphy the opportunity to turn around, and just before hawking a monster loogie at me, chortle out "Dance, Buddy".

Fuckin' nonce.

We gathered viewing materials, Mr. Malone rolled in a TV set and we watched the Cubbies run at it.  My Dad was a big newspaper reader, and every Saturday Morning during this exciting season I would run with a quarter to the row of newspaper machines in the covered walkway of the plaza across the alley from our house.  That quarter gave me a Chicago Sun-Times and a fresh full page color poster of one of the Wrigley Field Warriors starting players. 

Mr. Malone used my newsprint substrate mini-posters to help create a display in one of those glass encased hallway windows for our club. I was pretty proud to make such a major contribution to it. I didn't get along with the kids in the club at all, most of them were a clique of diques, but Malone?  Thanks to that Mr. Malone guy, despite how most of the 7th grade felt about him, despite how angry and strange he could be, Malone was all right.  He had valid reasons to feel the way he did, teaching was turning a corner into not just being difficult at this point.  

Mr. Malone was spittin' jewels at us. Pearls before swine. He knew his stuff, was well versed on 200 plus years of American History, from the Constitution to the Falkland Islands crisis blasting at us from Roger Mudd every night.  No one respected that nearly enough. 

 I could deal with the other kids thanks to all of that.  

I never did get my mini-posters back.  Never was able to hang Rick Sutcliffe, Bob Dernier, Gary "Sarge" Matthews, or Ryne Sandberg on my bedroom walls. 

But, as far as the Cub Club kids, I know that I was different from the rest of them.  Because Mr. Malone said so.

And I still am. 

HERE IS MR. MALONE'S OBITUARY.

ADDENDUM:  In the winter of 1984, Mr. Malone assigned us a brief essay on something out of the days news.  I picked the budding negative controversy surrounding the horror film, Silent Night, Deadly Night and its depiction of a murderous Santa Claus.  I even attached a newspaper theatre ad from the same day's paper to highlight my eloquent observations about the silliness of the whole thing. 

Mr. Malone, I have since learned, was a conservative.  I got an A anyway.  That's who he was. 

SALEM'S LOT UPDATE

 Well, the video goes into more detail, but finally a SPECIAL EDITION of Salem's Lot is released, and just a hair shy of 50 years after it aired.  Ridiculous. 

But here we go...

I'm a little more photogenic than Barlow, but I didn't feel like typing all that shit.

YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME

 I’ve gotten pissed off recently at the DVD and Blu-Ray industry.  Particularly the boutique industry, so to speak. And I’ll give you a couple examples of reasons why:

Number one:

Enemy Territory. This is a movie that has great sentimental value for me due to the fact that in 1987, I rented it from the Schofield, WI Super 29 grocery store's video section.  On a Saturday night I watched it with my mom. It was a low budget action picture that never even made the jump from VHS to DVD.  Hell, at the time I rented it, I'd never even heard of it. It may not have even seen a theatrical release. Finally Arrow, a company which I have been actually starting to think may surpass Scream Factory in quality and film selection, decides to release it this next year.  

But only in the fucking UK. That’s ridiculous. This is the most quintessentially American 80s film that I can even think of off the top of my head and it’s only being released in the UK?  It stars Ray Parker Jr. as a maintenance mechanic trapped along with Gary Frank in a gang-infested high rise project.  This unlikely duo must fight their way out.  My Ma and I enjoyed the hell out of this little CBS/Fox VHS release, and it has great sentimental value as Mom explained to me the cinematic history of Frank, and also Jan-Michael Vincent, another star of the film.  Tony Todd makes an early appearance here as a frighteningly intimidating leader of the film's gang, the Vampires.  So being released in the UK alone makes no sense to me.

Ditto is the case with Brian DePalma’s The Fury.  It did see a DVD release I once encountered at a Shopko in Southeast Wisconsin, and a limited release through Twilight Time's Blu-Ray label.  Both are bare bones however.  I only own the laser disc you see pictured up at the top.  I'm hoping the Arrow folks will eventually push it out over here, or someone else will license the title for American release. 

Example Number Two: 

Outland. Now this is a film. I’m gonna write further about it in a future Spectrum Files entry. In short, it’s an action sci-fi film that is essentially a retelling of High Noon starring Sean Connery, and taking place on one of the moons of Jupiter.  A stellar film directed by Peter Hyams that I won’t go into any more detail with because I selfishly want you to read the other piece. The great thing about it; however, Arrow is releasing a deluxe, special edition with tons of bonus features on it that go above and beyond what I would expect for this film. 

The negative: It’s only on 4K. 

Salem’s Lot time.  I’m sure that if you’ve read this blog, you’re probably tired of hearing about it. Here’s a link to further information on it from me so I don’t have to irritate you by repeating myself: LINK.  The film was released to TV in 1979 which was well over 40 years ago. Finally,  Arrow is coming out with a super deluxe special edition of the mini-series. The special edition I’ve been waiting for forever. 

The problem is: Once again only on 4K. 

Now I did a slight amount of research and found out that the reason that Arrow is doing this is because they and other boutique physical media companies think cinephiles and physical media collectors are in the game for 4K and have left Blu-Ray in the wind.  If it's true that this is their belief, it pisses me off. 

Because it is a bunch of shite.

I’m a collector, but I’ve done most of my film collecting by hunting for the cheapest possible pick up I can find by visiting clearance racks,  Entertainmarts,  Movie Trading Companies, and the cut out bins of Half-Price Books. By going on eBay and trying to hustle the lowest price out of whoever is selling the films. I'm not cheap.  I'm frugal and not wealthy.  I’m also not going to pay $500 for a top-of-the-line 4K player. I can’t afford it. And I’m not the only collector of physical media that feels that anger.  

I mean, Just sitting there and thinking that true fans of film and those that have a collection of hard copies should be 4K owners is really shortsighted. It’s not gonna kill these companies to put a Blu-ray of their 4K upgraded movie out there for those of us who don’t have the 4K player.

It’s kind of insulting, and a little bit elitist, to think that those who collect physical media are only into the high end reproduction, and the rest of us are a bunch of half-wit art and tech-retarded inbreds.  Mind you, these boutique companies do wonderful work: bringing quasi-lost films back from the scrap heap, video and audio remastering, newly filmed documentarian looks back,  archival material that they research and gather, and right on down to the packaging.  Why, they're fucking artists, really.  

Then why cut those nerds among us that can't do the 4k thing, completely out of the running to own these films that have returned from the format grave?  The nerds that buttered your bread as you boutique monsters grew your businesses??

You all can kiss my ass, if that's how you're gonna roll, and suck on a chili dog out behind the tasty freeze. .

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