Blasphemy, Tom Cruise and how to debase one art form with another

by: Esteban - June 18th, 2012   Add Comment
Motley Crue

“Ohhhhh what a beautiful moooorrrrnnnninggggg…”
Yep, doesn’t work..

So a movie was released in theaters this past weekend called Rock of Ages, you might have heard of it. This film seems to be based on a musical about hair metal in 1980′s Los Angeles.

Read that statement again:

This film seems to be based on a musical about hair metal in 1980′s Los Angeles.

If you don’t find something wrong with that statement, our value systems are drastically at odds.

I first caught on to this abomination in the local movie theater.  A cardboard setup with a dumpy fake guitar was attached to a wall.  Being an avid Rock Band gamer, it caught my eye.  I didn’t even know it was about a movie, I thought it was some dumb arcade game that had broken down.

Then I saw the trailer.  By god, did I want to tear my eyes out of their sockets.  What the FUCK is wrong with the world?!?  Has it been long enough that movie producers think that they can cast Tom Cruise as Bret Michaels, Russell Brand as Nikki Sixx, and Diego Boneta as Creed front-man Scott Stapp’s father? See for yourself. This is not okay.

The 1980′s metal scene was a complex melting pot, but basically boiled down to the best bands shedding the LSD induced yuppie disco/new wave rock music movement and tearing faces off with their no holds barred shredding and enthusiasm towards wrecking havoc.  There is nothing glamorous about this lifestyle.  True, partying on the Los Angeles strip when Mötley Crüe was tearing up the town might have been awesome, but it wasn’t for the whole family to enjoy.  It was a raw, bloody, gritty, dangerous environment free from oversight and glorious to behold.  However, my view on this type of glory vastly differs from the Broadway-turned-Hollywood abomination of Rock of Ages.

Consider this way of looking at the movie from Zach Baron: (emphasis mine)

Rock of Ages attempts to appeal to the childhood nostalgia of audiences in the 25-54 age demographic in the same way that Battleship and MIB3 and any number of other summer blockbusters spawned from preexisting brands do, though the ongoing assumption that people will just continue to care about Journey until the end of time remains chilling. More chilling is the way Rock of Ages treats the music of that era, which is to divorce it from any sense of context or intended meaning and instead use it to play Mad Libs. I have no particular reverence for Starship or Twisted Sister, but the scene in Rock of Ages in which two mobs face off by singing “We Built This City” and “We’re Not Gonna Take It” at one another is somehow deeply depressing. (Imagine a version of this film in which a depressed group of Nirvana devotees chanting the lyrics to “Lithium” are brought back from the brink by a chorus of people singing LCD Soundsystem’s “All My Friends.”) It makes you feel like the destiny of every song you ever loved is to become a sock puppet in a movie musical starring Tom Cruise.

Besides being incredibly well written, Baron strikes true on what hits my spleen when I think about the existance of this filthy animal.  My greatest fear is that all those youth Hairspray fans, who don’t remember when using hairspray was cool, watch Rock of Ages and get the wrong idea about what those times were really like.  I predict that they’ll go back to listening to their auto-tuned copies of the soundtrack, and when they hear the real thing they’ll squeal and exclaim, “omg reallyz i has that song on my iPhone, but MY version sounds wayyyy better” in which case I will punch that little twerp in the shoulder and turn Kiss up even louder.

Thank you, Earl Scruggs

by: Esteban - March 29th, 2012   Add Comment
earl scruggs banjo player

Earl Scruggs, the greatest banjo player ever.

Earl Scruggs passed away on March 28, 2012 at age 88.

I’m not going to pretend that I know a whole heap about Earl.  I first learned about the god of banjo from my college roommate, the great Banjo Mike, banjer player in the 2nd Avenue Mountain Boys of NYC.  (Haven’t seen ‘em live yet, but their vids rule)  Wise beyond his years, he introduced this rookie of society to one of the greatest talents ever, playing numerous purchased and pirated tracks to an eager ear.  It was my great privilege to accompany Banjo while practicing some classics, forever cementing bluegrass music into my soul.

A while back, I had the opportunity to see Earl at a desolate New England venue.  Due to a dire financial situation and utter stupidity and lack of foresight, I declined making the road trip to see Mr. Scruggs live.  I was told that this may be one of the last times I could witness a legend in person, and indeed it was, as I learned of his passing this very evening.

Almost immediately, I had to start up “The Flatt and Scruggs Grand Ole Opry Show” on Netflix Instant Watch, to clumsily attempt to honor his spirit.  Halfway through, I’m on the verge of tears.  Let me try to describe what a baller this dude was:

First off, these guys really like Martha White Flour, and want you to like it too.  It makes great cornbread, and I’m convinced that it’s the best goddamned cornbread in the nation.  They make evaporated milk too, and they teach you to cook better than Rachael Ray does.

Okay, now on to the real shit.  This show doesn’t mess around like all these new fangled network TV rip-offs that over dramatize everything, and contain really shitty commercials every 10 minutes.  This show is the complete opposite.  The emcee introduces Lester, who immediately intros the song and shoots the camera over to Earl, who absolutely RIPS his banjo strings apart playing the first tune.  This guy was so good, they named a style of pickin’ after him.  He never misses a fret, bends a note too far, or breaks a string.  You may as well think you’re listening to a studio track, but guess what?  They are all playing LIVE, without the benefit of modern technology, masking inconsistency and lack of practice.

Lester rocks at the rhythm, the supporting band members bring the house down, but Earl stands out above all.  What’s more amazing, is the manner in which he carries himself. The man is more stone faced than Tim Duncan, and works his craft even better.  But unlike Timmy, you can see in Earl’s face how much he has dedicated himself to music.  He picks the guitar in episode one of the show, and while he’s probably just making sure the reverberation sounds just right, watching him put his ear to the body of the acoustic is a magical moment.

Just now, Earl seems to have broken out in early version of a tune aptly named “Earl’s Breakdown” (YouTube video below).  I know it’s an early version, since Banjo played me a newer live-er version where he re-tunes the thing mid-song.  Lester accuses him of being mad at his banjer.  I bet he is.  It must be caused by being forced to play the traditional slow ass country and religious tracks popular in the 50′s.

Wow, they”re really wrapping up episode two in style.  The Martha White Flour theme song flows right into John Henry, with Earl calmly owning the bluegrass genra’ with a skilled, simple, and perfect banjer sequence.

I swear I’ll introduce every future house guest to a viewing of this magical show featuring the immortal Earl Scruggs, to honor his legacy and try to keep the spirit of Earl and bluegrass music alive.  (Even if it costs me my precious stock of Basil Hayden bourbon)  You’ll be remembered Earl.  Because I’m a city slicker, I’ll be moaning your praises as I hit the ground after my first ever shot of moonshine.  After I come to, the next one will also be in your honor.  I’ll try to make some birds pass out while I’m at it.

Hat’s off to you Earl.  A million thanks to your enormous contribution to our world.

A Las Vegas Excursion

by: Esteban - March 13th, 2012   Add Comment

What happens in Vegas stays there? BS.  Only if you are a cheating schmoozeball.  Four days of Las Vegas provides quite the opportunity for positive and negative reflection.  I was overjoyed and awestruck by the spectacle, followed by an equally large feeling of disgust and terror.  Thus follows Esteban’s saga in Sin City.

An early morning flight to a lovely Newark airport (seriously, it was nice) brought us to the extravagant Terminal D in Las Vegas, N.V.  The amazement was immediate, but we had seen nothin’ yet.  Whilst trying to find transportation to our suite at the Encore, we stumble upon a busy outside location full of taxi’s, sedan’s, limos, you name it.  We are approached by a fast talking man who hooks us up with a limo and a stop at the local watering hole to stock up on beverages on the way.  We arrive at our hotel in fifteen minutes, so fast that we underpaid our driver.  So far, this town is awesome.  Then, we walked into the Encore.

For those unfamiliar, Steve Wynn basically reinvented Las Vegas and made it what it is today: an over the top vacation spot for everyone to spend money on what they want. His marquee resort is appropriately named the Wynn; the Encore is the Wynn’s newer sister resort directly adjacent.  They are literally the best locations to stay in Las Vegas, and walking into the lobby immediately proved this point.  It was INCREDIBLE.  Red carpets, luxury ground floor pool access, exquisitely designed bars, and the Encore casino, full of slots, card tables, roulette, craps, etc.  Oh, and the lobby smelled of flowers.  The suite was equally as nice, overlooking the Wynn and the rest of the Strip.  Couldn’t beat the location!

In the words of Andrew W.K., it was then time to party. I had my first blackjack experience at Harrah’s, a slimy smoke infested super-casino, where I happened to come away with 10 american dollars of profit.  There were people everywhere, and lots of noise.  The night’s entertainment was a special viewing of Andrew at Body English in the Hard Rock Cafe, and turned out to be an amazing show.  The next day, a full walk of the strip down to the MGM Grand for day one of 311 Day didn’t disappoint, though two full days did me in after the first full set and I stumbled to a cab for home.   That’s where things started to turn.

It is said that two days is the maximum amount of time to spend in Las Vegas.  I can attest tthat fact to be utterly and completely true.  I was a wreck of a human being, unable to function, and grasping to every drop of water I could in the unforgiving dry desert air.  The problem with that?  Sunday was no different than the day before.  Indoor smoking of cigarettes filled every inch of the place, drinking and suspicious women crowded the lobby, and it was a bit distressing.  And thus Sunday illustrates a key point of Las Vegas: This place never takes a break. EVER.

You are basically allowed to do anything in Las Vegas.  We often saw folks on the street (both homeless and semi-wealthy) carrying full handles of liquor, chasing with either beers or red-bulls, depending on the socio-economic status.  In the east, it’s usually frowned upon to smoke in the presence of non-smokers, be visibly drunk in public, and try to pay for erotic satisfaction.  This is the environment I grew up in, and am used to.  Las Vegas has the complete opposite point of view, and the atmosphere reflects it everywhere you go.  This may float may people’s boats (and obviously does, considering how many god-damned people were in town), but not mine.

I had a fantastic time experiencing Vegas.  Conversely, I don’t have a desire to return anytime soon.  Had I only stayed for two days and peaced the hell out or won a couple grand on the Wheel of Fortune slot machine, it would have been just enough to bring me back to that decadence.  However, I am resigned and happy to enjoy some east coast moderation rather than complete and utter chaos in the wild wild west.

Last of the Mohicans Drinking Game

by: Esteban - February 9th, 2012   Add Comment
last of the mohicans drinking game

"I WILL find you! Whatever the cost."

I’m surprised it took me this long to digitally record this masterpiece of a drinking game.  Mark my words, Last of the Mohicans is arguably one of the best and most absurd movie drinking games you can play. (the other one I can think of is Disney’s Three Musketeers, which I’ll let my sister compose at a later date)

For years, this film sat upstairs in my parents room, hidden away from my eyes due to violent content and adult themes.  However, the day Ken Frapper (name changed for privacy reasons and repercussions) came in as a substitute for my 4th grade Social Studies class, my life changed forever.  Fortunately, we were supposed to be studying the history of the French and Indian War, and Ted thought we’d learn the most from an in-class screening of this 1992 absolute blockbuster.

I learned what scalping was.  I learned that there is no need to beat around the bush (like those stupid Englishmen) when you want to get with an aristocratic nurse in colonial times.  I learned that Mohicans were the good guys and the Hurons were EVIL.  But most importantly, I learned that you don’t need to change up a soundtrack to make a movie memorable.

This is my favorite movie drinking game to play of all time.  My brother Marahute and I get so horrifically sloshed when we watch this, we often run it back in French with English subtitles.  Have a blast and remember, Daniel Day Lewis only wins Best Actor awards.

Drink every time…

  • Anytime a skirmish breaks out
  • Someone is physically injured in hand to hand combat (scalped, beat with a war club, etc.)
  • Nathaniel “Long Rifle” Hawkeye fires a musket
  • Anytime you catch someone reloading a musket
  • Madeleine Stowe (the leading lady) gets sexier
  • A Mohican runs up a mountain

DEATH RULE

  • Drink every time you notice that the soundtrack hasn’t changed a bit.

One Way E-Mail to Hell

by: Marahute - February 2nd, 2012   Add Comment

Everyone is an asshole.

At some point, in each and every human life, there is a moment where everyone acts like an asshole. A bastardly scumbag.  A disgusting abhorrent douche. It doesn’t matter if a person is a full time, profession asshole or encours a single case of a passive aggressive twatness, the maxim remains.  At some point, even the Sainted Mother Teresa blew off a lunch date without so much as giving a courtesy cancelation call.

Everyone is an asshole.

Not claiming innocence from this law of human nature, I want to share my own tale of asshole-ness. Let’s begin with some background information shall we?

College freshman roommates are notoriously lousy.  Being the first year, nobody really knows who they want to room with. Even if you are lucky enough to meet someone during orientation that tickles your fancy enough to want to become roomies, within the first month of new found collegiate freedom, personalities change and kids are netflixing “Roadhouse” to learn from Patrick Swayze how to breaks legs and rip throats. (RIP Patrick, you will always be a bad ass, throat ripping, dirty dancing ghost)

With two years of experience as a Freshman College RA I have to admit, there are some ABSURD roommate conflict stories.  Stories of sabotage, conniving bitchiness, and clothing exposed to cooked chicken Ramen Noodles.

To make matters worse, there comes a point when filling out college paperwork during orientation where a single box can be the difference between living in the Andy Dufresne “one bunk Hilton” or Cool Hand Luke’s ‘box,” figuratively speaking of course.

“Would you be interesting in rooming with an international student? Yes or No?”

I thought I was going to get Bruce Lee. What I got instead was anything but. (Names will be purposefully omitted to protect such persons against RantingEstaban.com fanclub rioting and vigilante violence.)

 

The guy was a douche-nozzle.  Not because he sprinted the 30 some odd feet to and from the bathroom to evacuate. Not because he would only eat fresh cranberries or the foulest smelling Cantonese chow mein from Evergreen Asian Restaurant.  Not because he would stand over your shoulder unannounced as you watched a movie laying down in bed, only recognizing his presence as his putrescent aura loomed into the line of stench.  The reason he was a douche-nozzle is simple this, his nozzle was douchey.

Not shockingly, Mr. Asia and I did not speak from the months of December through June. When I say “did not speak” it means not a “Good morning,” “Hello,” or any number of onomatopoeias.  However, we DID have one last communication between the two of us.  I would now like to share to you an unaltered e-mail which I received while sitting approximately 6 feet from it’s sender.

Dear Dave:
It is not my wish to raise fights, but an incident today prompted me to do at least a basic check.
In the afternoon, I was supposedly sleeping until I hear the rising volume of the TV, the tuning of your guitar, and your pleasant conversation with Andrej(?)-at a volume higher than normal speech. Now, I would not automatically alienate anyone just because of uncomfortable conducts, so I feel I shall ask you plainly on two questions: Was there really a tendency, a persistence for you to have the tv on loudly even when you are sleeping or not in the room(a habit for you to fell asleep better, for example?) and that what factors made you to disrespect me in such conducts? From what I could remember, few if any similar conducts were done by me to you.(ex. use of headphone was a measure I often take)

If those were just normal life features and you believe in so, please say so; if those were taken for a purpose to affect me, please also make the reasons clear. I am just proclaiming that, whether intentionally or unintentionally, I believe I had received enough aural annoyance so far, and I wish to know if there’s a specific reason (or reasons) for this. Thank You.

Andrew

Pretty good English for a two faced son of a jackel who has the nerve to call himself an “international student” after admitting he’s lived in the Minnesota for nearly 16 years.

I could have gone numerous ways after I received and read this e-mail.  Most of them would have been amicable and courteous or at the very least moralistic in reply.  However, every man has its breaking point, and this was mine. I was ready to throw my digital sucker punch.

This was my reply to Mr. Twatasia’s e-mail unaltered. None of the facts are true whatsoever. None of it I regret.

Dear Andrew:
I know we haven’t talked a lot over the year.  But I guess there are a few things you should know about me to understand some of the habits I have.

When I was a child, my parents use to fight all the time.  The screaming was utterly unbareable at times, it shook the house.  Sometimes I could hear them physically hitting each other.  As a child nobody wants to hear their parents fight, or admit that their family isn’t as perfect as they wish it to be.  The only way I could escape all of the mess was by turning up the TV in my room very loud, so that I was not able to hear the verbal assults my parents placed on each other.  If I keep the TV on all night and slept though the berating, I could imagine that I had the family that I always wanted.  One that was kind and considerate and loving.  I’m sorry but this is a pretty sensitive topic for me and it’s very hard to discuss in person.  But I feel that you needed to know this so that you would not be offended by my “aural annoyances” anymore.

My one way e-mail to hell.

Let’s clear up about my parents. They are loving, non-abusive, best of intension people that anyone could hope to ask for.  Yes their qualms about my alcoholism are unfounded and their quarks parallel other parental idiosyncrasies. But they’re good people!

My response was more to the intension of “Suck it Mr. Douchewanese!  Get away from your shitty anime long enough to learn how to actually talk to people and become a social adult which being at college encourages and provides a great platform for.”

Okay, lets wrap this up and get to his last words ever to me in any form digital or otherwise.

Dear Dave:
I got the idea. If that’s the case, I have nothing to argue against. Now I’m more respective of you, considering what you had endured and had overcome. It was my fault that I didn’t try to understand you more during the year, and I guess I’ll simply apply earplugs more when needed.  Thanks for letting me know about this and my best wishes to you and your family.

                                                                                     Andrew

Everyone is an assole.

(I don’t proofread and I’ll never apologize for typos or incoherent sentences or ideas. It’s a god damn blog)