Mad Max – Blurry Road

Breaking a deep-rooted (for the last five years anyway) Dick Jones tradition of categorically AVOIDING movie theaters, the visual fish-wrap they purvey, and the slack-jawed masses that sheep-herd their ways to same, I went to see “Mad Max – Fury Road” this Saturday.

Let’s start off with “the genital public”, who are unbelievably rude – even though there are signs everywhere about cell phone use/texting, and they run a leader before the film about same, there’s ALWAYS some asshole(s) that thinks it doesn’t pertain to him/her.

Because most theaters now are “stadium seating”, if you sit up high(er), you get a beautiful view of every cheesedick’s Smart Phone (boy, THAT’s an oxymoron, ain’t it?!), texting away and providing you with a continuous distraction from watching the (shitty) movie.

A little backline here – I am one of the Top 50 all-time “Mad Max/Road Warrior” fan boys, so I’m picky – but this thing SUCKED OUT LOUD!

It follows the now-established formula for “action movies” – lots of super-fast-to-the-point-of-being-totally-blurred-out swish pans and quick cutting (which I assume is supposed to simulate a Six Flags Roller Coaster ride), exclusively-used computer generated graphics/effects (Charlene Theron’s left forearm was “missing”, hence the mantle of dirt on her forehead), big splashy helicopter establishing shots, as if to say:

“Hey, look at how much $ we spent to make THIS movie more action-packed than ALL its predecessors. You’ll be relieved to find out that there is no plot to get in the way of the action, and a full cadre of characters that you will care NOTHING about as they mug their universally-confused ways through this dreck; oh yeah, THEY don’t care about the movie either – they just want to get back to their respective trailers and THEIR respective Smart Phones.

“And fear not – we put some requisite “zombie/vampire-like” characters in there, since ALL movies now MUST have either or both. Remember how the original “Road Warrior” had a transport truck with a SINGLE trailer? Hah – we’ve got a transport truck pulling TWO trailers AND a fuel pod!

“Oh, and we made the chase vehicles even MORE ridiculous – how ’bout a vehicle made of TWO ’59 Cadillacs stacked one on top of the other for NO reason WHATSOEVER except to look ridiculouser! Stupid, More Stupid, Most Stupidist!

“Now sit back and (occasionally) look up from your Smart Phone at the times when we BOMBARD you with noise to the point that you HAVE to look up from your screens for 2 seconds, which is the maximum amount of time that you can do ANYTHING but stare at your stupid fucking device, which we realize is the ONLY lifeline that you have between your miserably insignificant life and all your online friends’ equally miserably insignificant lives…”

After enduring this SHITE for two hours (after 17 minutes of “Upcoming Attractions” that were all equally trite), I came home and whipped out my Blu-Ray versions of “Mad Max” and “Road Warrior” (“Mad Max – Beyond Thunderdome” was and always will be conspicuously absent from this duo, despite Tina Turner) – NO CONTEST! REAL stunts done by REAL people in REAL vehicles, with REAL characters and a REAL plot – raw, edgy, gritty, edited to a frame. Weekend salvaged…

So save your money for the next iteration of Smart Phone device that will surely make your life better, Boys & Girls – in a few months, you’ll be able to (not) watch “Mad Max, Fury Road” on the SMALL screen, where it BELONGS…



Single Malt Snobbery

As a longtime Seagram’s 7 Crown drinker, who felt a bit snobby when I graduated up, first to Crown Royal (now ‘fess up – that fuckin’ royal blue felt bag – how many have YOU got?), then to Jameson (I mean Jesus H. Christ – if the IRISH didn’t know how to make whiskey or learn how to do so, they’d all be dead of thirst, right?) – I thought I had “reached the mountaintop”.


Single malt whiskey? That’s for cork-sniffin’ SNOBS that drive BMW’s, have wives named Buffy, Missy, or all that fairly recent wave of fancy douchbag names like Mica (pronounced “Meeka”, not “Mika” – like the stone, which is what they prolly are in the sack; although a casual lookup of the word mica claims that it is a mineral that has “perfect cleavage” – I am NOT making this up!), Kaylee, Aaliyah (you DO and YOU’LL clean it up!), Makayla (I have on good authority that a topical ointment will clear this up in 2 weeks), Peyton (REALLY?!), Paisley (feel free to projectile-vomit in this space), London (“Oh yes, Mommy & Daddy – please oh PLEASE name me after a place with shitty food, bad teeth, badder weather, and Mary Fuckin’-Poppins!”) or Cadence (insert ball-scratching wonderment here); THOSE are the assholes that drink single malt whiskey…or so I THOUGHT…

About 3 months ago, my neighbor (who’s nickname is “Kronk” – I am NOT making this up! This guy is a luddite if ever there was one; the last of a dying breed of “men with opinions”, who aren’t afraid to speak their minds, even if it means stepping on a toe or thirteen – LOVE this guy!) invited me over to help him uncork his newly-purchased bottle of 18 year old, single malt Glenfiddich.

After initially turning up my nose at such pomposity, at his URGING, I jumped in – “Shit – this stuff tastes like freakin’ PEAT MOSS!” “Just sip it and give it a chance, you retart” – his reply – him knowing that he was talking to a guy that actually LIKES Spam AND chipped beef on toasted Wonder Bread…

So I sipped it down, had a second, then walked back home, after feigning gratitude for introducing me to “Liquid Dirt”. Two days later, he souvenirs me a bottle for some car job I did for him that saved him a few hundred bucks.

Now hear this – Dick James Jones is NOT one to waste a bottle of liquor – Nossir! But it sat in its fancy box for a coupla weeks, ’til I ran out of my big jug o’ Jameson; reluctantly, I opened it up…

I gotta say – by the time yours very truly poured that last drop in his 4 ounce shot glass (What – YOU don’t HAVE a 4 ounce shot glass, you poor, dumb bastard?), the hook was set Goddammitall!

Last night I poured meself a double+ shot of my (formerly) beloved Jameson – PISS WATER! That swill is now relegated for visitors and house pests – now pardon me Laddies & Lassies, while I head on out to Costco for a bottle of Glenlivet/Glenfiddich – if I can get my nose out of the air long enough to see down the road…

You can NOT make this shit up!

A regular reader of Dick Jones spotted this and sent it to me (Thanks and a tip of the hat to the lovely Ashley!) – it pretty much took me a month of pondering with my mouth agape before I could get my head around it enough to pass it on:

As I study on this for the 152nd time, let’s consider the possibilities here, shall we? (No? Well I’m a-gonna go ahead ANYWAY!)

Aside from the obvious “straight-ahead”, heterosexual, missionary-position vicarious revisiting of your dead husband/lover vis à vis this fine implement (and where’s the “circumcised” model, I wanna know?), I guess there’s a secondary (or perhaps a primary?) market for this amongst the gay/lesbian contingency too.

And shall we EVEN think about filling that vial up with the ashes of a by-gone pet? Is there a law against that? SHOULD there be a law against that? Should there be a law against THINKING about that? Should there be a law against WRITING about that? Is that “The Thought Police” knocking at Dick Jones’ door as he types this?

I’ll leave you alone with your thoughts (and maybe your Visa card) now… How ’bout those Chicago Blackhawks?!