Terminator: Salvation = Iron Maiden's Eddie?

Check out this amazing animated poster for the next Terminator flick. Looks a bit like Somewhere In Time-era Eddie, no?

TERMINATOR: SALVATION POSTER



PS: I know a real blog entry is overdue... Texas is the reason. More on that shortly.

Which Is Gayer? Strikes Again

Thinking about this whole Proposition 8 fiasco, I decided to ask the big pink oracle. Somehow, I'm not surprised that the Mormons took this one.

Wanda Sykes Is Gay?

This one flew right under my Gaydar. She's funny as hell, but I swear I remember Wanda Sykes doing jokes about divorcing her younger husband.

Here's some footage of her speaking out about California's Proposition 8.



Also, this Prop 8 thing is bullshit. If I had Ellen DeGeneres money, I would seriously withhold paying taxes. No taxation without representation, y'all.

Here's some old shit:

"Get Thrashed" Back To A Simpler Time

The past has been coming back to haunt me as of late.

It started when my mom found a batch of old photos, awards and report cards that captured my youth—plus some pretty wack hairstyles—and made me think about a simpler time when I was one of only maybe three metal kids at Seth Low Junior High, located in the bucolic cultural mecca known as Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.

Soon after, some of my middle school classmates started finding me on Facebook and reminding me of just how notorious I had been for choosing to rock skin-tight acid-washed jeans instead of rolled-up parachute pants with two pairs of pastel socks back in 7th Grade. To this day, I feel vindicated whenever I see four different shades of black nail polish at the Chanel counter—even teachers gave me shit for making this my consistent choice at the time.

Sure, it sucked sometimes being stuck in that guido hell, but it almost didn't matter. I knew the truth: Metallica were the unequivocal kings of all music, heavy metal was the Alpha and Omega of my existence, and it was obvious that Death Angel were by far better than Dark Angel ever could be (sorry, Gene!).



Maybe it's appropriate, then, that I recently took in the documentary, Get Thrashed, which pretty much summed up my musical soundtrack from the ages of 13 to 17 perfectly. Not only did the film touch upon local haunt L'Amour, the Bay Area scene (Ron Quintana still rules!), crossover (Go Sick Of It All, D.R.I. and Leeway!), it also served up super-size helpings of the so-called Big Four and a segment devoted to Suicidal Tendencies—all before wrapping things up nicely by introducing thrash's forbearers: Pantera, Shadows Fall and In Flames.



Better still, since the documentarians are also based in New York City, I attended many of the shows they highlighted in the film—albeit in an underage Kamikaze haze. They even displayed a ticket stub from the Madison Square Garden date of The Clash of the Titans tour that I went to on June 28, 1991. I'd postponed my Sweet Sixteen until the following night, opting instead to see Anthrax, Slayer, Megadeth, plus openers Alice In Chains (and a brief appearance by Public Enemy).



The movie even helped me remember why I worshipped Metallica so much as a 'tween, instead of blurting, "I want my money back," when I saw a photo of my room from back then—covered floor to ceiling in their posters. What's even crazier is that a lot of the people interviewed in Get Thrashed are my Facebook and Myspace friends now, too.

Get Thrashed far and away surpasses Sam Dunn's Metal: A Headbanger's Journey, which struggled to ensure each sub-genre was included and over-explained, yet offered no conclusion to the metal phenomenon's resilient vitality. So, wholeheartedly, I recommend Netflixing this bitch instead.

And since I'm a nitpicking asshole, below are some wise-ass observations:
* I really enjoyed the extended band coverage in the international, region-based Bonus featurette, which focused on lesser-known acts like Testament, S.O.D., Death Angel, Overkill, Sacred Reich and Carnivore. But Forbidden? Heathen? Atrophy? Razor? Really?
* Gary Holt is the Norm MacDonald of metal.
* I think I heard Brian Fair call the band "Nuke-lee-er" Assault.
* Cliff Burton still fucking rules.
* Dear Lord Satan, please help me un-see those spandex enormity pix of Billy Milano's balls.
* Why wasn't any footage of Dave Ellefson used during the Megadeth segment?
* Municipal Waste must be interviewed for any metal-related documentary in current or pre-production. Period.

Thank You, America...

...For not fucking this one up, too!



Outside my window right now are people exhibiting behavior I've only witnessed after the Yankees win a World Series. Literally, all I hear is hooting, hollering and neighbors screaming out their windows over CNN predictions that Barack Obama has surpassed the 270 electoral votes needed to overtake John McCain in order to become the next President of the United States.

But now the real battle begins. For all his rock-star status, Obama must now facilitate the change he's been so earnestly speaking of. And it won't be easy. Our country, simply put, is fucked. Hell, when German magazines start criticizing us for our divisiveness and marginalization, you know we've dug ourselves into a deep, black hole.

Good luck, President Elect Obama.

Now Sarah Palin can go back to rearing her children and grandchild, Tina Fey can focus on the brilliant 30 Rock and maybe I can have a full-time job. Oh, and thank you, Texas, for doing my tattoo proud... NOT!

All Hallows Weekend

Halloween weekend has come and gone, and while my mood was less merry going into this year's holiday than the past few (not to mention how disjointed it was! I didn't even get to meet up with Jimmy, Amanda, Nelson, Heidi nor Bunche), I still put on my black DVF dress, a red power jacket and the finest evil clown makeup CVS had to offer in order to become a mash-up of this year's most cliched costumes: Sarah Palin and Heath Ledger's Joker. Sarah Palin is a bigger joke than 911 could ever be, after all.



For what I missed in quality I made up for in quantity, burning up plenty of cardio points by criss-crossing the Lower East Side on foot with Tessa. After meeting up on Houston St., where my friend Dannielle graciously coifed my hair into a Palin-esque up-do, we hoofed over to Sixth Avenue to catch a brief glimpse of the Halloween Village Parade that started over a half hour prior. Tessa, who is visiting from Atlanta, borrowed some props from me for her costume, and though she originally planned to be the Twitter mascot, we soon determined her long blonde wig and aqua-blue sequined Betsey Johnson bolero worked best as "Typical Halloween Slut," which did shockingly well in inspiring guys everywhere to high-five her over her choice.

Though I was tempted to stop applying makeup after I'd given myself "black metal" dark blue-shadowed eyes, I found an obscene little joy in applying red lipstick so far outside the intended lines. I also soon learned that guys want to hate-fuck clowns as much as they do Sarah Palin. Even as early as 9 pm, I started getting hit on by guys who wanted me to "earn" their votes.

We soon got word that friends were hanging out on Avenue C, but by the time we got to Second Ave and St. Mark's, it was decided that a stop at San Loco was in order; both to line my stomach with a catfish taco loco in preparation of absorbing copious amounts of whiskey, but also to use their bathroom to adjust makeup and take creepy photos. On our way in, I witnessed my favorite moment of the night: a 40-something-year-old man sitting in a parked Mercedes doing a Whippit out his open window.

"Was he just doing what I think he was?" I ask Tessa.

"Yes! I didn't think people even did Whippits anymore," she answered, somewhat mystified.

When we left the restaurant more than 20 minutes later, he was still sitting in his Benz, laughing his ass off at the Super Marios, sexy Wizard of Oz Dorothys, and even sluttier pirates walking by. He even gave my outfit a thumbs up! But no hit off the canister. Oh well. He could've been sugar-daddy material.

Soon our craving for whiskey got the best of us and we settled for Jack and Gingers at Doc Holliday's where the adorable bartenders were decked out as different incarnations of Dolly Parton. By the time we finally made it to Ave C, we'd seen some elaborate Tetris get-ups, more sexy pirates and some very played-out Amy Winehouses before meeting up with some Star Wars characters, a faux American and some other guy with a beard at 40C. In retrospect, we should have stayed with the pub crawlers instead of heading to Williamsburg for a party, but even that journey turned into a fun ride.

Despite the fact that we were on a train full of costumed hipsters (including a pretty awesome Beavis & Butthead couple), for some reason I was the one targeted for a quick one-on-one interview with a Katie Couric acolyte. At this point, however, I'd been consulting with my media advisor, Jack Daniel, so I was able to make it through the interview in character and even announced my next children's names were going to be "Pre-Cal" for a boy, and "Dander" if it's a girl. Dander Palin, it totally sounds right.

Though the Williamsburg party was definitely happening, it was maybe too happening, so we didnt stick around long. We decided to rejoin the pub crawl, which had now moved its way up to Avenue A. On our way back to the L, I saw my favorite costume of the night from afar.

"Hey! Are you an asshole?" I shout at the stranger. Tessa, shocked, had no idea I was asking if the guy was dressed as Kurt Vonnegut's famous anal sketch. And he was! With that happy coincidence, it was time to head back to Manhattan. It was on the way back that I got the most Palin rage. "Where's your retarded baby?" asked the drunk jerk at the Bedford stop. "Don't you hunt wolves?"

"Umm, that's moose! You betcha!" I yelled back, trying not to get too confrontational over someone I'm clearly, well, clowning.

Four more drinks, two bars and a risque photo op with a Bill Clinton later, my feet let me know it was time to call it a night. Only 363 more days to perfect next year's costume! I'm thinking either Ville Valo or "sexy" air traffic controller.