Showing posts with label Year of Teen Wolf. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Year of Teen Wolf. Show all posts

Friday, June 19, 2009

The Declaration of Creative License

Updates on YoTW, my psychic-ness, and my awesomosity:


A couple weeks ago, Lailani sent me this link. I'm sure you're all familiar with the Three Wolf Moon shirt, but if not, consider yourself henceforth enlightened. It's not necessarily Teen Wolf, but seriously, read the last line of the article. Or read the whole thing, because either way it's rad.

Then, Ginny showed me this.

Basically, I need to do the script. It has to be me. It just HAS to. How do I get on that writing team? Whatever, you know it's got to be me and Boomer, the Vice President of the Year of Teen Wolf movement. I don't think there's anyone else in the world more qualified than the two of us to beat something like this into brilliance.

So I ask that all who come here sign this petition I've created:


The Declaration of Creative License for Teen Wolf

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the cinematic societal status arbitrarily assigned to them by self-appointed upper-echelon cinephiles, and to assume the rights of status given to those scholarly few and established screenwriters, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel their scriptwriting.

We hold these truths to be self-evident: that the sanctimonious Teen Wolf is untouchable in and of itself, that to do justice to a remake would require endowing the writing of a such a script to clever devotees, that among these devotees are Rassles, Boomer, and certain other members of the brilliant blog community. That to secure the proper script, we must be instituted as its Authors, deriving our awesome powers from the consent of the moviemakers. That because we predicted the Year of Teen Wolf, once the movie becomes eligible for remaking, it is the Right of Us to alter, abolish, or recreate it, and to institute a proper script, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them should most likely include Van Surfing and Air Punching. Prudence, indeed, should dictate that Classic Movies long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that cinematic remakes are disposed to making audiences suffer while evil remakes are sufferable than to right themselves by supervising the reimagining of Movies to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations of previous beloved Classic Movies, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Horseshit, it is their right, it is their duty, to take control of Classic remakes, and to provide a higher standard for future remakes. Such has been the patient sufferance of audiences; and as such is now the necessity which constrains them to govern the alterations of Teen Wolf. The history of cinematic reimagining is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over audiences. To prove this, let facts be submitted to the candid world.

Psycho
Godzilla
Wicker Man
Planet of the Apes
The Nutty Professor
Get Carter*
Manchurian Candidate**
I Am Legend***

We, therefore, the undertyped, Representatives of the Blog Community of Rassles, on the internets, through assembled comments, appealing to the Moviemakers of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of the good People of the Internet, solemnly publish and declare that Rassles is fresher than princes in Bel-Air, and Boomer is a master of sweeping cult movements, and the rest of us are really cool and chic and clever, and that we have the right to the creative license of Teen Wolf.

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* Well, the original's not really that good either, but Stallone? Really? You suck.

** I'm devoted to the original and the book.

*** Also devoted to the book, but not all of the movies necessarily. Don't fuck with me on this. The movie completely missed the goddamn point.

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Thursday, March 26, 2009

Mischeif. Rawr!

Let me preface this one with as much simplicity as possible: Boomer is fucking retarded.

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Having no idea what day this is going to be published, I might be redundant in saying that while Rassles is out, getting drunk and rowdy, which is nothing new, only now she is doing it in a city other than Chicago, she has asked me to guest post for her.

Which you can pretty much take to mean that she hates you. She really hates you. While she and I seemingly think of the same freakish things pretty often, she does so with big, awesome words and with a writer's spirit, heart and grace. I do it like a stoned, skater kid who just might be all of 15 years old. Also? She seems really social and I'm kind of anti-social. She makes this stuff seem funny and attractive to people. I make it seem like it came from the brain of a shut-in who only has cats to talk to.

However, I'm pretty sure the day is going to come when Rassles and I will finally meet face to face and the world is going to have to be put on notice because the sheer awesome energy of what will manifest with that meeting will just be too much for most people to handle.

I imagine the conversation will looking something like the following (I'll skip the weird, awkward greeting where we just look weird and awkward to each other), I simply call it "RAWR!":

Rassles and Boomer, sit on bar stools with beers in hand.

Rassles: Rawr!

Boomer: Rawr, Teen Wolf, Nards! Ha ha ha.

Rassles: Total Kenny Loggins, Danger Zone, RAWR!

Boomer: OMG, Scary German Guy - Juke Box Hero!

Rassles: BACON AND FOREIGNER!!!!

Boomer: RIIIIGHT! AHHHH! RAWR!

Rassles: What are you looking at, dicknose?

Boomer: Never say die!

Rassles: RAWR! Random movie quote, obscure reference to something weird.

Boomer: Ah, I'm the only one in the world who gets your obscure reference right now, we so rock and everyone in this bar HATES US!

Rassles: Another round?

Boomer: Dude! Bring it! Robots.

Rassles: Shivs. Rawr!

Boomer: You're awesome.

Rassles: No, you're awesome.

Boomer: NO! You. Are. Awesome.

Rassles: I know.

See? I told you she hates you. This was complete crap.

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Tuesday, March 10, 2009

You Thought It Was Kind of Like, You Know, A Novelty Thing?

I'm walking out of the bar and looking for passengers. Someone needs to ride with me.

"Hey, do you wanna ride with me? Otherwise I'm the jackass driving to the party alone."

Beth is all, "Hell yeah, I'll ride with you."

So we head over to my car to lead the car parade from the bar to the Kalina residence. I'm a little annoyed, since I remained sober so I could drive people, and then I learned that three other friends had the same sobering idea, and some random Neanderthals didn't care and planned on driving their own drunk asses. Usually, I would fight them and make them get in my car, but I honestly didn't give a shit. They want to get hammered and drive in a town that slices drunk drivers from navel to nose, that's fine with me.

"So I read your blog like every day," Beth slurs, and chuckles. "We think you need to write a book."

"Who's we?" Unlock the car. It's actually kind of nice having a backseat devoid of jammed-in drunken clowns, kicking my chair, hollerin' for burritos, cloak and daggering their half empty bottles of Old Style like precious cargo.

"Me and CrazyLiz."

"I don't know if I could gather enough thoughts together to come up with any sort of plot. I've never been good at plots."

"You could totally do it."

"And then I could dedicate it to you in the front. Like, of the book, and it could say, 'To Beth, Who Is Extremely Sneaky, and Tricked Me Into Dedicating This Word Dumpster To Her."

"Because She Wants To See Her Name In Print."

"Exactly," I start the engine and power up the radio. "So where are you living now?"

"Uh, Evanston."

"Yeah, I didn't even realize you were back in the country. I'm all pissed, because I don't know anyone in Africa anymore," I get a glimpse in my rear view mirror of the trail of cars behind me. "It made me feel cultured and special. Degrees of separation to a faraway continent and all that."

Beth laughs, "I don't think I could have stayed in Senegal much longer."

"Still, it's crap. You were my African Connection. Now I'm going to have to like, convince someone to move to Namibia."

"Well--"

"Sorry, hold on, stop talking, no talking no talking hold on hold on." Turn up the radio and start singing along with the song. "SAY you will, say you wi-i-il, be mine toni-ight--"

She starts laughing. "Is this Foreigner?"

I raise my eyebrows and smirk sideways. "You know it."

"Do you seriously listen to Foreigner?" Snickers.

Shock and befuddlement. "Do you seriously read my blog every day?"

"Well, yeah, but I thought it was kind of like, you know, a novelty thing."

"No fucking way man, listen to Lou Gramm, this is awesome in its simplicity," I turn it up a little higher, "Oh--won't--you SAY you will, SAY you won't--"

"That is hilarious! It's not just like, a blog thing?"

"Make up your--What? Did you think I was lying or something?"

"No, but I just thought...I don't know...who loves Foreigner?"

"Um, who loves bacon?" I sneer. "Fucking everyone. Even vegetarians slip for bacon."

"I love that you really love Foreigner."

"Duh, of course I do. Just like I really love Teen Wolf."

Beth keeps doing that surprised scoffish "huh" thing, all gaping and perplexed until we turn onto the Kalina's court, the line of cars trailing behind us as the song slips into "I Wanna Know What Love Is," and Beth asks again if this is Foreigner as I serenade her and nod with flourish.

Man, I love Foreigner.

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Monday, February 23, 2009

Contamination Nation

Yeah, I know that this is a part of a hypothetical series of covers for books that are based off of movies, the majority of which are not Teen Wolf, but officially, wolf fever is seriously polluting the country as we speak. Maybe it's because Target has a Teen Wolf double-feature special on sale right now.

Apparently, my new thing is to just link to other blogs instead of coming up with my own things to write about.

But seriously. Check out the covers for Ghostbusters and War Games. Genius.

Fucking whatever.

Gyna had me read a review posted in the Stranger regarding the worst movie in existence, because, well, she and I were fucking right on with our assessment, and Seattle agrees. Movie is awful, horrid, incredible badness, and the only reason most of us have a desire to see it is for the chance to memorize every sinewy cranny of Bradley Cooper, who I'm pretty sure is the earthly personification of Apollo.

I just hope Hollywood doesn't figure that out, because they're just going to keep on cranking out awful Cooper romantic comedies that I'll waste my time and money watching until he's completely fused into the League of Hot But Expendable Gentlemen, like Hugh Jackman after he did that time-traveling Meg Ryan bullshit and then that crap with Ashley Judd, the Vampire of Fun. And she's not the cuddly emo Twilight kind of vampire, I'm talking like From Dusk Til Dawn Liver-Spotted Sucker-of-Joy.

Anyway.

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Tuesday, February 10, 2009

My Double Vision Always Seems to Get the Best of Me.

This weekend, Gyna got herself all hooked up with a vinyl copy of "Double Vision," which would easily be included on a list representing the five all-time greatest Foreigner albums. And not just because they only had five albums.

Then, after rocking out to Foreigner, we watched Teen Wolf Too.

Fucking everyone watched Teen Wolf this weekend. Even people who don't know that it's the Year of Teen Wolf were dropping it in conversation. Yellavitch told me a story about her sad attempt at car surfing. Someone had green jello with their lunch today.

Strangers are using the terminology. I heard a guy on the street call his friend "Dicknose." Boomer's noticing it too.

It's like the world is catering to me.

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Monday, February 9, 2009

Sisterly Weekend, Part I.

After my fun filled Friday of drinking alone and thoroughly dominating the remote control, Saturday involved a short road trip with one sister to visit the other in college.

I picked up Katsisch and forced her to listen to "Dirty Diana" on repeat, intent on teaching her all the lyrics by the end of the ninety minute car ride because the last time I saw Yellavitch she didn't believe me that it was an actual song, and I was committed to making Yellavitch feel stupid for not knowing something.

My sisters are like, Crazy Brilliant. To a grand, beleaguering degree. And then, no matter the topic, our conversations are never light or respectful. Whatever we say to each other is dubious and corrupt, and everyone is stupid. And sneaky. We weren't sisters that confided in each other. In general, we're not the type of people that really confide in anyone, and probably because as sisters, we're full of nothing but ridicule and fierce reactions. Because none of us trust anyone, let alone each other.

In comparison to the two of them, who are both younger than me, I'm the sweet, simple sister. I have no idea what kind of crafty-person savage-logic is twisting around in their heads.

For example, take this brutal conversation:

I walk up to Yellavitch. "I like your hair."

She squints suspiciously. "Why do you all of a sudden care about my hair?"

"I just like it today." I shrug and smile.

The air feels fuzzy, like someone just turned up the volume on everything: the wind, cars driving down outside, the click of the zipper on my sweatshirt. My sister's voice. "You have never given a shit about my hair before," she laughs in that haughty, aggressive way that always pisses me off. "What the hell do you want?"

Sigh. "I want you to know I like your hair."

"Do you realize that if the only compliments you ever pay to me are in regards to my appearance, I'm going to associate positive reactions with my looks and looks alone?"

Stormclouds are swiftly gathering in the distance through the window, and I can't help feeling like she's making it happen with her brain.

She's all snide and coiled. "Why couldn't you say, 'I like how you're speaking today, your rhetoric is exceptional?' Would it be so hard," she swoops her arm for effect, and the wind groans against the door and my mind is panicky, because now I am convinced that my sister is like a fucking Weather Witch, "to stop conforming to the compliments that are properly prescribed by society and instead focus on aspects of me that are far more important than my fucking hair?" Thunder. Wind. Clouds. Thunder. Zipper. Clacking. She points. "See? It's people like you--you are the reason we place so much--"

"You know what?" I interrupt before she can lay some crazy weather curse on me. "Fuck your fucking hair. You should just give up and shave it all off, because you look like the back end of a shitting goat." Inner thought process as I turn and leave the room: Crap, I should have said Teen Wolf. DAMMIT. Say it anyway. Say it. SAY IT. So I smuggly turn, and add, "Or Teen Wolf." And then I turn back around, because I'm proud of myself.

"WHAT? Oh my god, that makes no sense whatsoever. That would have been so much better of an insult if you hadn't said that," Yellavitch laughs, like this is the most triumphant moment of her life. More lightening. Thunder. "You really can't do anything right."

And that is what it's like being around me and my sisters. Always. So yes, when I know my sister is wrong about "Dirty Diana," because it's an allegoric precurser to Almost Famous, I am pointing it out and digging in with all the firepower I have.

And by "firepower" I mean "my other sister."

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Friday, February 6, 2009

I Believe In A Thing Called Sloth

I'm very angry right now after listening to Motorhead all day, because nothing pisses me off more than a guy named "Lemmy," and because I have this wonderful plan to sit at my apartment by myself tonight and get drunk and watch She-Ra, and then anything starring Mark Wahlberg or Colin Farrell. Because I'm in the mood for beer, cartoons, and hot men.

I'm probably just going to watch Three Kings and Tigerland over and over and over again until I pass out.

Or Teen Wolf. It's the year for that sort of thing.

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EDIT: I lie. Battlestar Galactica is on tonight. Let the saving of money commence.

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Wednesday, February 4, 2009

YoTW, cont'd.

Yeah, it's old news but it's still relevant:

So apparently, Joaquin Phoenix has been advocating the YoTW behind my fucking back, hitting a level of commitment that I can't even pretend to score, considering I have neither the ability to grow mutton chops nor hypertrichosis.

I guess I don't really lose, though, because hairy-faced chicks are rarely, rarely considered premium tail. Then again, neither am I, for all these ridiculous reasons that I hear but just don't understand. Like "getting drunk" and "yelling unnecessarily" and "wearing horse sweatshirts" and "blogging" and "not showering" and "looking unsexy."

Still, if I were the type to meme shit up, and had to write a prescribed number of things for which I'm thankful, numbers 1-n would read: I am thankful that I do not have facial hair. Just warning you in advance.

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Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Sometimes It Skips a Generation

You know, I was so sure that the song of 2008 was going to be "Youth Gone Wild." I mean, I was positive that there would be this massive Skid Row revival, where Sebastian Bach rejoined for one last tour before spontaneously combusting from being so fucking bodacious and disorderly. Which makes sense, because since he was a kid, they couldn't hold him down.

Sometimes he wore gold pants.

And obviously, since I'm sure none of you knew that "Youth Gone Wild" was supposed to be the song of the year, I can add my exhausting one-woman campaign for song of the year to all of the other things I failed to do in 2008. But my failures really shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone, since I lead the kind of life and that either throws people into laugh fits or uncomfortably ends conversations.

Everything I do is either awkward or hilarious.

(Small aside: Earlier today I was trying to come up with the common denominator between all of my friends, since they're not all friends with each other and I think about things like that all the fucking time. I came up with nothing until I typed that sentence. Up there, just now. Before that sentence, the only thing they had in common was an undying love for me. Which is really the only prerequisite, so if anyone's interested, I'm pretty sure I've got my Posse Applications lying around here somewhere. I'll ask Slinger, he knows where they are.

But part of being in the Posse is you have to love what I love, and that means "Youth Gone Wild." It also means that when I name a topic, that's what we're goddamn talking about for the rest of the year.

But yes. That's what all of my friends have in common. Awkward hilarity. And I can identify them all by laugh and laugh alone.)

Anyway, so I've been thinking a lot lately about where 2009 should lead me, and I'm nearly 100% positive that this year, everything's coming up Teen Wolf.

Ever since I unleashed that love I have for Stiles, fucking Teen Wolf is everywhere I turn. I never knew what a cross-country devotion that movie inspired until like, three weeks ago. I mean, obviously, I know it's a classic. But I feel like the emotions are stronger than I ever realized.

And then Gyna made out with this guy, and he totally Boofed her up. Seriously. She's got all these crazy scratches across her side. And one of my co-workers was talking about Full House and the episode where Joey and Jesse do a cologne ad, and I realized: Joey and Jesse's boss is Dad Wolf.

THEN: I got in an argument today about Spiderman and the exact words of this: "With great power comes great responsibility," when I realized that I was all fucked up, because in Teen Wolf, they reel that quote in too, except it's "with great power comes greater responsibility."

And you know who's been directing It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, which I half-realized when I watched it on Friday after recognizing "Jerry Levine" in the credits and trying to remember who it was?

Yeah. Mahfuckin' Stiles.

Superbowl party at my parents house. My cousins and I started reminiscing about Vegas, when David blurts out, "Never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city." I grabbed him and shook him as hard as I could and yelled, "ARE YOU SERIOUSLY QUOTING TEEN WOLF RIGHT NOW?"

Plus, Boomer likes it.

Let the Year of Teen Wolf commence.

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Saturday, January 10, 2009

LifeStiles

I am getting sick and tired of all the people coming up to me and knocking on Faux Stiles.

Obviously, they don't understand. Stiles is not a man, per say. There is no "original" or "faux" in the land of Stiles. He is not merely a character in the Teen Wolf series. Stiles is a way of life.

Without Stiles, would we have ironic slogan t-shirts? Would we go surfing on top of our vans? Would we sunbathe indoors atop blow-up alligators to the glint of tin-foiled Monopoly boards? Would we be as offended when bitches refer to us as "dogs" when we randomly get all anthropomorphically hormonal while waltzing with hot co-eds?

Without Stiles, would we ever truly be able to encourage the wolf within ourselves?

Nay, I tell you. NAY. Stiles would chant, "All you gotta do is be the wolf, and I'll take care of the rest."

Stiles brings out the lively, shady lycanthrope in all of us. And then, if we're weak enough to submit to the beast (and we are), Stiles is the man to ground us, to help us actualize the honorable side of the wolf, the useful, good-natured, fun-loving side. The side that lets us sing "Do You Love Me" at college parties and inspires synchronized group dances. The side that montages to Oingo Boingo.

Let's pull in another movie. Imagine you're a werewolf, specifically the guy from the second season of Twin Peaks, whose name I do not remember. Gary Busey and a paraplegic Corey Haim are threatening you around town with a silver bullet. You only have one eye, because Gary Busey was all drunk and shot a rocket at your head.

If Stiles were there, he would flat out call you a jerk, talk you down from your crazed wolf state, help you ride off into the sunset in the headmaster's corvette, and then fire a "What are you looking at, Dicknose?" when Haim wheels by with his shotgun, oblivious to your smooth getaway. Stiles can fucking do anything.

But you have no Stiles to save your ass, and instead you're shot in the other eye by a snotty kid in a wheelchair. Fucking Coreys.

What would have happened to Jason Bateman in Teen Wolf Too if he had no Stiles at his side, regardless of whether he was Original or Faux? Could you imagine that disastrous hypothetical boxing match, where Bateman claws and bites his opponent to death instead of winning honestly and getting a lot of free popcorn from his adoring fans?

Granted, Stiles wanted the wolf to come out that time (man, inconsistency is a harlot). So it could also be argued that Stiles is the worst friend ever and has no concern for your well-being unless it profits himself, but fuck that. Stiles cares.

Whatever, my point is, Stiles is a man to be celebrated and revered. For shame, all you anti-Stileses. For shame.

To the Whores: you guys are all my Stileses. You ruin my life, call me a jerk, and then make it better.

I need to go to bed now, because the Stella is nearly gone and I have Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo tomorrow. Or today. Shit.

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