The Worst Film Sub-Genre of Them All

The unfortunate pun in my title is SOOOO intentional. Yes, I'm talking about the dreaded submarine movie.
Recently my wife told me she wants to see Greyhound. I had a vague remembrance of seeing the poster for it somewhere, but gave it no attention because the photo of a constipated and oh-so solemn Tom Hanks told me more than everything I needed to know. I just recalled Hanks wearing some kind of military outfit (strike number two). 
With mounting dread, I asked, "Is that the film where Tom Hanks is a military pilot?"
She answered, "No, he's a submarine commander."
"That's WAYYYY worse," I groaned.
Before I delve into the depths of why I hate submarine movies, I should probably clarify that the Solemn Tom Hanks movie is my third least favorite movie genre. I may be the only one in the world who feels that way (well, outside of my brother and a friend), but I just can't take another solemn and Important(!) Tom Hanks movie. Give me the early Tom Hanks when he was zany, cross-dressing, and table-dancing any day. What finally sealed the deal for me on Tom Hanks was when in an interview, he said, "My job is to hit the mark and tell the truth." Ugh. Okay, listen up, actors... Get over yourselves. You're NOT curing cancer. End of mini-rant.
(For the record, my second least favorite movie genre is the unfunny comedy, which pretty much amounts to 95% of current "comedies." Don't get me wrong. I love unintentionally bad films. They make me laugh. But comedies that don't work are just dire. I'm looking at you, Adam Sandler.)
Back to the awful submarine movie genre... When asked why I dislike sub movies, I reply, "Well,  because they're about a long, hard, immersed vessel full of seamen." (On second thought, I probably shouldn't say that out loud.) But spending two plus hours with a bunch of sweaty, smelly men in cramped quarters isn't my idea of entertainment.

Now, I can already hear you hardcore sub fans calling me un-American and that I don't know what I'm talking about. I've heard this many times, "What? Are you crazy? Das Boot is a great film!"
Well, yes, except, um...it's not.
I remember some college friends of mine dragging me to see it at the university theater. One guy said, "Come on, it's a great flick! I've seen it twice already." Reluctantly I went, thinking maybe my fears were unfounded.
They weren't. 
Two-and-a-half hours of sweaty close-ups of Germans in a small ship with various plips and plops and sonar beeps and AOOGAAAH horns was enough to turn me off of submarine movies for life. 
Years later, someone said, "Hey, wanna go see the new directors cut of Das Boot? It's three-and-a-half hours long!"
I'm no longer friends with that guy.

The only other person I know who has a similar aversion to submarine movies is my terrific mother-in-law. Notoriously, she watched the sub flick, Run Silent, Run Deep, a mind-numbing record of 18 times!
"Why, for God's sake," I'd asked her.
"Because I'd fallen asleep every time it was on and on the 18th viewing, I finally found out how it ended."
Huh. No wonder she fell asleep. I won't even watch the film once. The title alone sounds like Irritable Bowel Syndrome or something. And I probably could've saved her the pain of watching it 18 times by guessing how the movie ends. The same way EVERY submarine movie ends: the sub rises from the depths. It's not rocket science.
There you have it. If disliking Tom Hanks and submarine movies makes me un-American, I'm moving to Canada (which is sounding more like a good plan every day). Oh! And I don't like John Wayne and his non-acting either. (Ducks...)
While on the topic of everything All-American, be sure and pick up a copy of my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. Not only is it full of horror and humor, it's a snapshot of what's going on in the heart of the Midwest right now. Hint...it ain't pretty.

Meeting the Pandemic Part-Way...

Well, we all want this damn pandemic over with, that's something everyone can agree upon. Everyday I hope scientists discover a vaccine so the suffering of victims and their loved ones can end. And I would hope the day-to-day fear everyone has just by going out and getting groceries comes to a conclusion.

Months ago, I thought the situation was just untenable, near hopeless. I couldn't envision a world where we had to wear masks and even those weren't fool-proof protection. But we've managed so far. Even though there are other factors (*ahem*, I'm looking at you NOTUS {the Numbskull of the United States}) going on in our world trying to thwart the best efforts to stop the spread of covid 19.

Not too long ago, I woke up for the first time in a mellow sort of acceptance state. It is what it is. Time to pull up my big boy britches and carry on, hampered by masks or whatever, let's show 'em that gung-ho, never-say-never, can-do spirit! How did this happen?

It wasn't a sudden epiphany or revelation or premonition or visitation from Joseph Smith or an anal probe by aliens or anything. No, the night before I'd had a dream, business as usual, except everyone was in masks. And the masks weren't the point of the dream, nothing out of the ordinary. The pandemic was the new normal.

People are resilient. I think everyone's tackling this pandemic on their own terms, generally going through variations of the six stages of grieving: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, day-drinking, and finally, acceptance. I know I did.

I'm not happy about it, but let's buck up and carry on. Particularly with masks.

And I applaud the creativity that's coming out in certain areas, making the most of what it is. I've seen a lotta great masks. My daughter, for instance, has taken up the doggy mask. 

My daughter's fave mask.

I've seen people accessorizing their masks to match their outfits. Creativity is soaring!

But about those masks... People, don't make me repeat myself: WEAR YOUR DAMN MASKS OVER YOUR NOSES! It doesn't do you--or us--any good if you don't. The nose allows things in and out too, you know. I don't know how many times I've seen ruddy-faced guys with masks nestled below their noses, their nostrils pluming like a charging rhinoceros with asthma. Geeze, I can't believe I even have to say this. Pretty soon, I'm gonna start hitting people up and telling them to yank it up (of course, then I'll have to yank myself up off the ground; have you SEEN the size of these guys?).

And stop listening to our wondrous president. These days Trump's preaching that people should not wear masks. Recently, NOTUS attempted to bully a reporter into taking his mask off. Trump's rage rallies are full of maskless buffoons (thanks for the thousands of new cases, commander-in-chump!), as he preens onstage like an orange peacock, calling people names and bragging about what a genius he is because he could name a lion on a cognitive test. It wasn't too long ago Trump said wearing a mask was patriotic. But whaddaya expect from a guy who changes his mind by the minute.

My preferred mask (even though my wife is afraid for me to wear it in public. I say, "Bring it, fascist cretins!" (Of course, that's before I get beat up in a grocery store.)

 

Anyway, hang in there folks. This week, I took real enlightenment from something my neighbor said--"You know, living through the pandemic may well make today's kids smarter, more adaptable, and more empathetic."." Talk about finding a silver lining. I'll take it.

Confessions of an ex-video junkie

Hi, I'm Stuart.

(Readers:) Hi, Stuart!

And I'm...sob...I'm a...videotape junkie!


I suppose I can root the origins of my terrible affliction back to my childhood. As a lonely, shy kid, I threw myself into a world of Spiderman, Batman, and most importantly, the late (in reality, not so great) magazine, Famous Monsters of Filmland. In Forest Ackerman's nerdy periodical devoted slavishly to horror movies, I'd pore over the pages, nearly salivating at all of the thrilling, goony monster flicks I'd never get to see.

It's history time, Millenials, so drop a squat and listen up... Back in the day, we only had three--count 'em--three TV channels to choose from. My brothers and I battled it out for dominance over the little B&W TV box with lousy reception. I was always in the minority, my brothers uninterested in Star Trek or anything cool . Sigh. Saturday evenings at 6:00 was the absolute worst. I deemed it, "The Desperate Hour," for the choice came down to news, Lawrence Welk, or Hee-Haw, for God's sake. My point is we didn't get to choose entertainment like you lucky kids do now with the touch of a button. Rather, it chose us. How else do you explain the popularity of such shows as C.H.I.P.s or Three's Company. Dire. I just knew I'd never get to see the movies I could only dream about.

Then a fourth channel came out (sometimes; the reception sucked if it rained, snowed, or a bird skittered across the roof), an unheard of UHF station. On Sunday afternoons they showed something called "Slapstick Cinema" which was great, but at 10:30 Saturday nights, they started showing all of the old Universal monster movies. I'd stay up until 4:00 A.M. sometimes watching a triple feature. Nirvana! But it still wasn't enough.

Soon, my hobby took a backseat to the looming problems of high school (bullying) and college (women and beer!). After college, when I got my first job, I started raking in more money than I knew what to do with. When you're young (unless you're Michael J. Fox or whoever), life savings was something never considered. Then I discovered the miracle of videotapes. I threw myself into the medium, investing in a second VCR and dubbing three movies per tape for my own collection. I'd travel all over the greater KC metro area in search of rarities even though 99% of the selection was limited to current Tom Hanks films.

But...I discovered this whole new market, something mysteriously called "The Grey Market," the equivalent today probably being "The Dark Web (what's with all the color?)" On the Market, "dealers" were selling their own copies of rare horror films! Dayum, I'd found what to invest my money in. So, I ordered all the costly catalogs (mainly photocopies done at the dealers' day jobs) and started slowly. The mail wait was agonizing. Then it still wasn't enough.

It never is.

I started getting more movies than I could possibly ever watch. I cast my net wider and collected films from all over the world even if they were in a foreign language. I even bought a French dictionary (although THAT didn't last long). After awhile, I had amassed quite a collection, so I thought, why not hit these dealers up to see if they'd like to trade? 

It worked. After a while, I had a network of traders throughout the world, including someone in Japan and Italy! When I'd come home from my day job, tons of packages would await me on the doorstep (later, I found out the neighbors thought I was a drug dealer). I became well known in the trading circles, a world class videotape trader. I mastered the phone like a over-caffeinated stockbroker wheeling and dealing in pork bellies, although my stock in choice were movie oddities.

"Hmm, no I already have a widescreen, uncut print of Dario Argento's "Four Flies on Grey Velvet." You got it in English? Get it in English and I'll send you Sergio Corbucci's "Companeros, then we'll talk..."

On and on it went. I couldn't stop. I no longer had enough bookshelves or storage room. The fun just kind of petered out.

When I first met my wife, I told her I had 5,000 or so movies on tape. Not to brag, mind you, I just didn't want her thinking Serial Killer. She told her roommate of my claim and the roommate said I was lying. Once my wife saw my collection, she said, "You weren't lying! You have 10,000 movies!"

All good things must end. Soon, a new up-n-comer called DVD made my tapes obsolete. Like an unloved, redheaded stepchild, I abandoned my tapes to about 35 bookshelves in the basement. BIG mistake. Our basement is very old, very creepy, and very humid. To my dismay, I soon discovered every last one of my tapes had gotten moldy within the cartridges!

ARGGGGHHHHH!

My wife and I rented a dumpster and watched as we took box after box of my life's savings to feed a landfill.

Let this be a cautionary tale, kiddies. (Think I'll get into collecting Blu-Rays next, though).

On the topic of collecting, how about starting a collection of my way cool books? There's mystery, horror, humor, suspense, thrills, chills, and ax spills! Fun for the whole family. Check out my way-cool, ginchy Amazon book page.

The Nostalgic, Wonderful, Deadly Toys of Youth

Ahhh. Memories. As a kid, when I could get them, I had the coolest, baddest-assed toys. Toys that could easily put an eye out, cause a fire, and give you really braggable second-degree burns. My toy chest caused two out of three of those outcomes and I'm not ashamed about it at all. Rather proud, actually.

Kids today are cushy wimps. Their idea of fun is wiggling around a joy stick, pressing buttons, and asking Mom for another latte. I know they don't want to hear it, but us older folks? Man, trial by play and error. Fun! And DANGER! The true meaning of toys, back when Santa wasn't so damn P.C.

"Please, Santa," I wrote one year, "bring me a Shrinky-Dink set."

The big red one answered my wishes (I'm sure against Mrs. Claus' concerns).

What were Shrinky-Dinks? Yes, I realize it sounds like an emasculated, embarrassed male, but it was one of the most totally awesome toy sets in the world! You got your own incredibly unstable plug-in electric mini-oven, toxic plastics, and cheezy designs that you'd toss in the oven and they'd enlarge! 

Now, I'm a little torn about Shrinky-Dinks. On the one hand, I shake my head about the top toy executive who thought this was a good idea to unleash on serial killer kids in the making, and on the other, I wanna give him an enthusiastic '80's high five!

I just found out there's still a bland, tamed down version of Shrinky-Dinks available these days. Forget it. No oven, no dice. I think I'd accumulated about four of those toy ovens through my youth, from various sets (one creating your own molded, electronic--although mine never worked--Frankenstein). Wish I still had them.

The '60's and '70's were a great time to be a kid. We had ovens galore, lawn darts (which had a tendency to end up in the neighbors' cat), Slinkies (kids LOVE playing with a sharp, curled wire), chemistry sets (my parents banned me from them after the second time I set off a sulfur bomb in the house--FUN!), Clackers (two glass balls tied to strings that you'd swing around like nunchuks until they exploded glass shards everywhere), Creepy Crawlers (yet another blast with highly erratic mini-ovens where you'd pour goop into blistering hot molds to make jiggly bugs), Slip 'N Slides (more appropriately called "Slip 'N Concussions"), Stretch Armstrong action figures (not "dolls," dammit!), a figure filled with unspeakable liquid that no kid could resist to puncture after the first day to see what Stretch was really made of, and so much more. And of course, the awesome Super Elastic Bubble Plastic, where you could put a dab of goo (giving off really toxic fumes!) to blow bubbles. This was fun.

Seriously, you millenials don't know what you missed out on.

Oh, sure, in my daughter's reign of terror through the '90's there were a few questionable toys I got for her such as Sky Dancers (they wanted to dance right into your eye like a bottle rocket), but the fun, mystique, and most importantly--DANGER--just seemed to have slipped out of toys.

On the fourth grade playground, girls really liked to see bad toy wounds, a lesson I quickly learned, and used to my advantage.

These weren't just toys. They were a rite of passage. A rite of passage into juvenile delinquency.

Ahhh, memories. 

Hey, on the topic of toys, there's not a single damn toy in my book, Corporate Wolf, but I thought I'd plug it anyway. It's a horror, darkly comedic, murder mystery, satire, whatsit with a kitchen sink in there somewhere. It's complicated.