L o b a B l a n c a {dot} c o m

NO!!! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!

I just checked my tracking info and saw a highly disturbing keyword search, spawned by one of my recent Flashback Friday entries: “Poltergeist remake.”

NO!!!!!!!!!!!

Dammit, no. This is my perfection. This is the movie that placed me on my horror movie journey. This is my first. Now Hollywood is going to muck it up, like they did Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and now Freddy Krueger. The Poltergeist remake hasn’t been cast yet, but MGM has announced that they’re hoping for a Thanksgiving 2010 release date.

Who do I have to contact in Hollywood to make them stop this? Some things shouldn’t be tampered with. This movie is one of them. What next from my childhood? Jaws? Gremlins? Adventures in Babysitting? “Don’t fuck with the babysitter” is more than just a line from the movie, guys.

All I have to say is this: If I hear even the tiniest rumbling of a rumor about Blade Runner being remade, something horrifying will happen. I’m not saying what, but it will involve cutlery and Tabasco sauce.

You might as well settle in for more geekery. I’m in that kind of mood right now.

So I’m finally watching my Voyager discs that I showed off here a while ago. Actually, I’ve skipped the first three seasons and gone straight for the Borg jugular. Season 4 was around about the time that I stopped watching the show the first time around. I’m slowly learning that this decision was definitely my loss. As off-putting as I originally found the character of Seven of Nine to be, I’m discovering that Jeri Ryan indeed brought more to the show than a catsuit with heels and a padded bra. I’ve seen quite a few of her episodes throughout the remainder of the series, thanks to SpikeTV, but now I’m filling in all the remaining gaps. So far, so good.

However, as I was watching an episode yesterday, I couldn’t help but notice something very familiar being used in a very…different way. I know that in the past, set designers have used various everyday objects as futuristic devices. Several of Dr. McCoy’s instruments were in fact re-dressed salt and pepper shakers from Roddenberry’s personal collection. And the TNG first season episode “Arsenal of Freedom”? Those targeting weapons that attack the away team are nothing more than plastic tubing and shampoo bottles.

Nothing wrong with either instance. It’s just set designers and props people getting their creative juices flowing a bit. But then there’s the vegetable peeler that Tom Paris used to repair Seven of Nine’s damaged hand in the episode “Revulsion.” Don’t believe me? Take a look:

Seven, we're going to have to peel away this damage...

Now tell me that doesn’t look like a stainless steel vegetable peeler with a pinkish glow added in post-production! Need another look?

This is how we cure tuber-culosis. Get it? Tuber...potato...cuz this is a peeler. No? Damn humorless Borg...

That, my friends, is a potato peeler if I ever saw one. A futuristic-looking peeler, true…but come on, guys. Dress it up a little bit more! At least make me work to figure out what kitchen utensil is being used in sickbay!

Never fear! My crotch flare and ripped physique will protect us from ghosts!

It’s been a while since I visited this particular topic…and since this is only the second entry and it’s about another Travel Channel show, it must seem like I’m focusing all my ire on one of the few channels that I still watch with any frequency. Don’t worry. There’s enough anger within this wolf’s warp core to break the Travel Channel barrier soon enough.

Right now, though, this is the show in my line of fire. First, let me point out that I love scary things. Scary books, scary movies, scary music, scary coworkers…love it all (well, maybe not the coworker part). I always have. Even before I was assimilated into the Star Trek Collective, I was a horror hound.

Additionally, within recent years I have become addicted to many of the “reality” ghost shows out there, starting with another Travel Channel offering, the British BS of Most Haunted, right down through Ghost Hunters, Paranormal State, The Scariest Places on Earth…hell, my obsession probably started with the scary episodes of Unsolved Mysteries. I know that most, if not all, of what is seen on these shows is either faked or edited to be more than what it really was, but I still find them fascinating.

As for what I believe in regard to the paranormal, supernatural, otherworldly, or whatever…I’m not really sure. I’ve experienced things that, I’m sure if I thought about them long enough, I could come up with a logical explanation for them. But would that be me just trying to rationalize something that really was irrational? Or me getting a grip on reality rather than letting myself be swept away by the fantastical? I’m not really sure.

I do know this, though: If the afterlife is real and I was somehow stuck in that netherworld and forced to walk this earth as a spirit, the last thing I would want is to have my sanctuary disturbed by these douchewangers from Ghost Adventures.

These three are the most insipid, ridiculous, posturing assclowns ever to enter the paranormal reality show genre (and that’s a huge feat since they share this genre with the likes of Derek Acorah). I suspected as much when I heard them being marketed as “Extreme Paranormal Investigators.” The word “extreme” makes me want to vomit. Why does everything for my generation have to be “extreme”? No, I’m sorry… EXTREME!!!!1!!1!!!

Whatever. I’ve actually watched several episodes of Ghost Adventures. Yes, I secretly am masochistic. The premise itself is quite intriguing: Three investigators are locked inside a location that is presumed to be haunted, with no camera crew, no additional staff, no nothing. Just them, their equipment, and the possibility of paranormal activity that they must find before sunrise. What could have been an amazing premise in the hands of actors able to inspire a sense of competency and intelligence is instead a clusterfuck of testosterone-induced strutting and screaming strung together by the ever-present bleat of curse words being censored out. It’s boring. It’s tedious. It’s predictable. It sucks.

Final analysis: If you like paranormal things like I do but have no patience for predictable Gen-X drivel, definitely skip Ghost Adventures. The Mystery Inc. gang is more professional in their ghost hunting than these piles of smegma. Check out A&E’s Paranormal State or Syfy’s Ghost Hunters and Ghost Hunters International. Sure, they’ve all been edited down to meet viewer expectations, but at least these shows offer something a bit more intelligent than “Holy shit! Oh my god! I am fucking out of here, dude!”

Indeed.

You know the old adage, “anyone can be offended if they’re looking hard enough”? So there’s this poster floating around out in Los Angeles of Barack Obama as The Joker. In case you’ve missed it, here you go:

Not a bad piece of PhotoShop work, no? Seems, though, that there are those out there who want to turn this into something racist. The Washington Post even dedicated an entire article to an attempt to make this into a valid argument.

Really? Way to help hammer in those final nails into journalism’s coffin, guys.

We get it. President Obama is half-Black. Why does this have to mean that every comment or criticism directed toward his presidency must stem from racism? Is this how we’re going to spend the next 4-8 years? Having to listen to droning, dimwitted pundits and witless op-ed dolts who want to ignore the chance at greater political commentary because obviously every criticism has to really be because he’s half-Black?

You know, back in my Angry Blogger^TM days, I turned Bush into the Joker, too. Don’t believe me? Check it out:

I also turned Condoleeza Rice into Catwoman. Wait a minute! Obviously, this is a racist comment about her being Black…you know, because black cats are unlucky, so obviously I was implying that she’s unlucky because she’s Black. Gott in Himmel! My eyes are opened and I see that I, too, am a blatant racist! Where must I go to confess my sins?

Yeah.

How sad is it that I’ve been sat here for about 10 minutes, giggling over this:

In case you don’t have the same horribly dirty mind that your humble hostess has, it’s the trackback link that’s left me laughing: “YOU ARE IN: Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton.”

See, now I’m laughing while typing this. As much as I love Hillary, I don’t want to be quite that close. Besides, shouldn’t I at least buy her dinner first?

Dirty minds aside, if you all missed Secretary Clinton’s appearance this past Sunday on Meet the Press, then here is the transcript from her appearance. Thank you to A2, both for supplying the link and the laugh.

Will Smith, second from right, walks on a street in Beijing. His son Jaden is co-starring with Jackie Chan in a remake of The Karate Kid called Kung Fu Kid. Dad Will is a co-producer of the film.

See, the actual photo that matches this caption doesn’t even matter. It’s a craptacularly grainy paparazzi shot that really would only appeal to the most die-hard Will Smith fans. I am not one of those people.

I am, however, one of what I’m sure are thousands (possibly even millions) of people horrified by this caption. Kung Fu Kid? Are you friggin’ kidding me? Please, someone sweep the leg before Hollywood remakes every movie ever made.

As pathetic as it is, though, we have no one to blame but ourselves. We keep going to these remakes, reboots, regurgitations, re-whatevers. All Hollywood needs to see is even the slightest glimmer of a profit and they’re convinced they’ve got a winning formula. Doesn’t matter that the formula tastes about as disgusting as pabulum, as long as we keep swallowing it, they’re going to keep mixing it up.

I think one of the most disheartening remakes that I have heard of recently is A Nightmare on Elm Street. I think that recent remakes of Halloween and Friday the 13th have proven that more is less, and lightning really doesn’t strike more than once (with the exception of Star Trek: The Next Generation, of course).

I suspect I’m not the target audience anymore anyway. Actually, I suspect I never have been the target audience of anyone beyond places like Intergalactic Trading Company and Diamond Select Toys. It is what it is. Here, however, is my own crack at captioning another shot I passed across during my pre-work Interwebz perambulation. Hope you enjoy!

Cate Blanchett begins to seriously regret her request to sit in the cheap seats...

Cap-Sac: It’s a Fanny Pack for Your Head.

Is it just me, or is this the most oversexed product ever? Especially if you take into consideration what “fanny” means over in jolly old England.

Even without the added U.K. slang dirtiness bonus, I don’t really like the idea of wearing a “sac” on my head. Especially when one of the big draws is that the cap tucks up into its own sac. Hmm. Buffalo Bill as accessory inspiration? Marinate on that image for a minute while you rub the lotion on your skin; I’ll wait.

Everything about this product screams 1980s nostalgia almost as loudly as Mr. Chapstick up there in the photo. The hats come in a variety of the most garish day-glo colors imaginable, including a neon yellow almost exactly the same color as one of my favorite hats from my early teens (I wore a lot of hats when I was young; I still do, but they’re more metaphorical than literal now…haha).

I don’t really have much else to say about this product. So I’ll just let the (NSFW) Cap-Sac Rappers take us on out…peace out.

Opening line from this article that has set me on my latest rant:

Virginia drivers will face new restrictions today, when hundreds of laws take effect, including a ban on sending or reading text messages and e-mails.

This is why I hate people. Not cell phones. People. Stupid people who think it’s a good idea to compose an e-mail while roaring down the road at 80+, more often than not in some ginormous vehicle that could house the entire Lilliputian population in just the glove compartment.

Several times now I’ve nearly been unwillingly shuffled out of my mortal coil by these offenses to common sense…these mutated beings with cell phone-shaped tumors that connect one hand to the side of their head and cause the other to flail around emphatically. This, of course, means that—unless they are spectacularly well-endowed—they’re not really steering their land boats.

I would surmise that the latter is true for two reasons: 1) scientific reports have proven there is indeed an inverse relationship between genitalia size and automobile size; and 2) if they were actually steering with something, they wouldn’t be drifting into my lane like the roadkill nutsack that they are.

Anyway. Seriously, this should have been a “der” moment, not something that needed to be legally restricted. If you’re behind the wheel of a car, you really don’t need to be tapping away on a keyboard. Which brings me to my solution: Every cell phone needs to come with a tamper-proof speed-sensitive lock. If the sensor detects movement above a normal walking pace, it deactivates phone, text, and Internet features. No ifs, ands, or buts.

Is this fair to those who can multi-task? First off, most people who believe they can multi-task are just people with severe ADD who start several different things at once and never finish any of them…most often because in the end they’re distracted by texting with their BFF. People who actually can multi-task understand that it’s not for every situation. Top of the list of inappropriate places should be behind the wheel of a freakin’ car.

Is this fair to non-drivers in a car? No. But we obviously are too childish in our intellectual development to understand that just because the passenger can e-mail while you’re driving, that doesn’t mean that you should be able to do the same. So, just like bedraggled parents who are sick and tired of dealing with whiny children, we’re going to have to go with the “If one of you can’t play nicely, then none of you can play” response.

I figure it’s either this or allowing Darwinian survival of the fittest take over. And while I’m all for tidying up the gene pool a bit, I’d rather not find myself in future Russian roulette situations in which I’m staring down the gold-plated trim of a Cadillac Escalade being driven by Blabby McDumbass.

No, I don't think you know what I want for Father's Day this year...

So maybe you didn’t hear that South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford went a little AWOL for a while. He just ambled away one day and didn’t tell anyone where he was going. He kind of mentioned that he was thinking about hiking the Appalachian Trail, so his staffers assumed that this was what he was doing. They even sent out a press release indicating that this was indeed where he was.

SIKE. Just playing. He was really in Argentina. Schtooping his mistress.

That’s right, you’ve read correctly: GOP Governor Mark Sanford— devoted GOP politician, loving husband, and father of four—abandoned his gubernatorial and familial duties without telling anyone where he was going so that he could bounce his mistress in Argentina ON FATHER’S DAY WEEKEND.

Sanford was another rising star that the GOP were hoping would have presidential potential. You know, along with Senator John Ensign. I told you all about Ensign, right? Yeah.

I love the GOP. They’re so delightfully and offensively hypocritical.