6.13.2003

 

I remember when my buddy and I saw Tim Burton’s Batman on opening day in June of 1989, we walked out of the theater thinking that they just HAD to make a sequel and Danny DeVito would star as the Penguin. We thought he would fill that role perfectly and lamented that the people at Warner Bros. would either never make a sequel, make another movie but put some two-bit villain like Egghead in it, or miscast the role of the Penguin and give it to Wilford Brimley or something.

Instead, they actually did what we thought would lead to great success, shockingly enough. (Then they turned the franchise over to Joel Schumacher and alienated Michael Keaton and the next two Batman movies blew beyond comprehension. Batman and Robin definitely qualifies as one of the ten worst movies I have ever seen.)

But that experience of fantasizing about a future movie and imaginatively casting actors in roles stuck with me, and occasionally I’ll think of a story I would like to see turned into a movie and imagine the actors who would bring it to life.

With the proliferation of comics and cartoon stories now hitting the silver screen, it occurs to me that Hollywood more than owes us a Thundercats movie.

Growing up, my entire existence consisted of He-Man and Thundercats. In my early youth, I had Master of the Universe clothes and played exclusively with He-Man toys, and if I wasn’t watching a He-Man cartoon, I was reinacting it by stepping into my mother’s darkened closet, holding aloft my light-up plastic sword and saying “By the power of Greyskull!” (Sadly, the 80s movie Masters of the Universe film starring Dolph Lundgren and Courtney Cox (!) might also make that ten worst movies list; how they could have ever thought replacing Orko with that stupid-ass Gwildor character could lead to success still escapes me.)

But as He-Man passed from popularity, my interests turned to my other favorite cartoon of all time: Thundercats.

Thundercats gave me a more sophisticated all-consuming interest. I had the toys, yes, but not all of them. I had to create my own Thundercats world. And I actually had friends who played Thundercats with me; we would act out the storylines on our own, and I always got to be Lion-O.

Anyway, I think two-hours of watching the Thundercats come to third-earth because the mighty planet of Thundera had entered its death throes all the while pursued by the Mutants on the big screen would make me exceedingly happy.

On that vein, I have started to think about who would best play the roles. I’ve made some preliminary decisions as stated below, but I need some help on the other stuff.

• Lion-O: Probably the toughest casting call in the whole movie, because depending on how they do the story, you might need one person to play the young Lion-O and then the other person to carry the main role. The other problem is that everything bases off Lion-O, so you have to get a decent actor to handle the pressure and athletic requirements of the role. Tom Welling from Smallville might be the perfect actor for this role, but he needs to find a way to make his voice sound a little more gruff and not look so pretty boyish. But he does have the right body and the proper youthfulness. Ultimately, the Thundercats movie might have to pull someone out of nowhere for Lion-O, just like X-Men pulled Hugh Jackman out of nowhere. And actually, Hugh Jackman could play this role perfectly if he looked a little younger and could act a little bit better; he has the right hair and the right body. And if they cast Casper Van Dean, I am hitting myself in the head with a boulder. He stinks.
  
  
• Panthro: Easiest decision for the entire movie: Vin Diesel as Panthro. He has the perfect body, skin color, screen presence, tongue-in-cheek humor, deep voice and bald head to play this role. Plus, my girlfriend loves him, so I have to throw her a bone, and watching Vin try to handle nun chucks could raise a chuckle. Ten years ago this role goes to Bruce Willis, but he has aged too much. Maybe I can find a spot for him somewhere else. Laurence Fishburne is another interesting choice, but he’s not quite buff enough. Those shirtless scenes in Matrix Reloaded kind of creeped me out.
  
  
• Tygra: Tough role, but crucial to the quality of the movie, as Tygra stands in as the elder Thundercat and will have to provide guidance to young Lion-O. I think you need someone a little older and sophisticated to tackle Tygra, but still athletic enough to kick some ass. A young Christopher Walken would be perfect, but I fear his time has passed. Robert Patrick of Terminator 2 and The X-Files could be an interesting choice. Come to think of it, Annabeth Gish, the girl who played Agent Reyes those last two years could also work as the next character…
  
  
• Cheetara: Michelle Pfieffer convinced me in Batman Returns of her ability to do a role like this and I think she could do it again here. However, I remember Cheetara as a taller woman with more of a minx-like character to her (and much bigger boobs; animators have such imaginations). Plus Michelle has gotten a little old perhaps, and I don’t know how believable she could look trying to run really fast. If Heidi Klum could act, casting her could be an interesting experiment and would probably put a few more asses in the seats. Elle MacPherson is another interesting possibility, and she does have some acting experience, but still somewhat questionable. Halle Berry could potentially tackle this one, and Sophie Marceau (with an accent different than French…) is another interesting possibility. I think I need some help on this one.
  
  
• Willy-Kat and Willy Kit: Another tough call, because you either have to cast 13 year-old kids or do Lord of the Rings filming styles while handling characters who are extremely agile and bound around in trees. Clearly feeling the X-Men influence, I think the rapport between the kid who played Bobby (Iceman) in X2 and Anna Paquin could work, but I don’t know how athletic Anna is. I also think Tobey Maguire and Orlando Bloom could do an interesting job as Willy-Kat, but finding a Kit for those two could cause more trouble. We’ll have to conduct a casting call, I guess.
  
  
• Snarf: Snarf will end up as a CGI character, no question, but Hank Azaria needs to provide the voice for him. Just because he can do any voice in the world. And if Hank’s not available, we can give Frank Oz a call.
  
  
• Mum-ra: Another easy decision: Viggo Mortensen. He has the ability to control a scene with his quiet forcefulness, a must for the Mum-ra as decrepit mummy scenes, plus he has that wild eye and the athleticism to handle the other part of the character. And I have a feeling he would just love the chance to play a villain lime Mum-ra.
  
  
• Slithe: Danny DeVito or Jack Black. I cannot think of anyone else fat and short. The character won’t have to move around much, just order his henchman around a bit. Jack Black might provide a little more humor and look more convincing in getting his ass handed to him.
  
  
• Jackleman: Gary Busey. He’s friggin’ crazy. If he’s too old, his son Jake would also work. But both of them are completely loony-looking, a must for this part.
  
  
• Monkian: Will Farrel. Hands down, no question. He cracks me up and will do a great job of getting his ass kicked around.

Anyway, I think I’ve covered the major roles here. I still need some help casting, but I know my fellow loyal Thundercats fans will help me out soon enough.

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6.12.2003

 

I cannot think of anything fun to write today, so I will just share...

Great Moments in Spell Check!

So today, I receive in the mail an envelope from the Golden Nugget in Las Vegas, where we stayed last weekend. Apparently, after our stay, I am now eligible to join their "Private Arrangement" club at no charge that will open the doors to free nights and so much more.

Included in the envelope was a letter explaining my options and asking me to sign up by:

filling out the enrollment form and returning it at my connivance.

Ha ha. Kind of appropriate for Las Vegas, all the same.

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6.11.2003

 

Happy Birthday to me,
Happy Birthday to me.
Happy Birthday dear Hose Monster,
Happy Birthday to me.



So what are you supposed to do to celebrate your screaming naked entrance into this world, the only time when people will look at you covered with all sorts of gunk and find you absolutely adorable?

My sources tell me a fine way to go is destroy the apparent mystique surrounding your physical appearance (especially if you don’t exactly know why a certain mystique has ever grown from just words on a screen, and especially perhaps if a few people have asked you what you look like in the span of a year and you have, in your own mind, turned these inquiries into a false mystique, which is entirely possible, mind you) by finally posting a picture of yourself. My sources tell me such an action becomes even more stupendous if you use a photograph more than three years old showing you in the very beginnings of a semi-inebriated state, such that even though you have finally shown your face, the picture doesn’t really represent you very well anymore.

So there you have it, fellow Hose Monsters. Me. For one time only, I shall not let my words create an amorphous image (no doubt you all thought me tall, dark and handsome; so sorry to pop that bubble). And just because it’s my birthday today.

Hoorah.

Special thanks to my pal Kristin Leigh, the first person to achieve permanent honorary HM status, for graciously hosting the image.

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6.10.2003

 

I fantasize quite a bit, but I don’t think I do so in a way common to most guys.

I’ve never had the Catholic school girl fantasy. To tell the truth, while those little plaid skirts don’t turn me off, I wouldn’t ever say I go crazy for that sort of thing. The idea of two lesbians going at it in the bubble bath really does nothing for me either, and I have never thought in any seriousness about having a threesome. I suppose jumping in between two naked women would prove for an interesting hour or so, but I cannot actually think of any situation I would actually like to do that. I have all I could ever want with my one beautiful lady right now anyway.

Every once in a while I can write about fantasies I have had or could possibly have, as I have done so in talking about fun on airplanes and moments in time, but talking about fantasies with me usually comes out as an unsatisfactory experience for my conversational companion. I assume this happens because I fantasize in a photographic medium; my daydream mental pictures consist of little more than images in time: me sitting in a folding chair while a naked lithe girl straddles me with her legs bent at the knees down the legs of the chair, her hands strangling the back of the chair as she rocks against me. The sound of thunder cracking above us and rain absolutely drenching us as we press into each other up against a wall somewhere. Quietly taking advantage of a quiet afternoon in the library, right on top of the tables in the back corner by the shelves holding the Federal Reporter.

But it occurs to me that I don’t share the classic male fantasies from time to time because some of them are so damn outdated.

I’ve had occasion to observe a few nurses lately, thanks to the proximity of my office to a health care facility, and having done so, I have noticed that the mystique of the nurse simply cannot exist anymore. I suppose in a time past I could see the appeal of getting down and frisky with a nurse. All that white suggesting an almost virginal innocence just waiting for the taking, but draping a woman whose commanding demeanor suggests anything but innocence. The sound of latex snapping ten seconds before a smirking blonde tells us to drop our pants because she needs to give us a little poke. All that proximity to beds and medical instruments for which the creative mind might find good use. The white stockings that, in our male minds, must certainly attach to wispy white garters riding hips encircled by the two white strings of the skimpiest of panties. And that one button a foot down from her chin straining at the pressure of the too-small bust line of a pure white dress smoothed over two large breasts.

Okay, so I guess I could understand why the nurse fantasy does something for a lot of men.

But honestly, have you paid attention to nurses in the last ten years? I don’t even need to discuss whether lots of less than attractive women have moved into the profession (and I’ll not contemplate such a topic here) as a reason for the destruction of the nurse fantasy; I can make my point on clothes alone.

Gone is the false smirking white innocence or the nurse with her snapping latex and commanding attitude, the red lipstick matching the little red cross on her sailboat hat as the only contrast to all that white, replaced by a pair of cotton royal blue loose pants and a glorified t-shirt covered with teddy bears. No more white suggestive desire, just a bunch of shirts covered in balloons and kids flying kites, pants just a little more dressy than scrubs and multiple pairs of Payless shoes.

Take the last three Victoria’s Secret cover models and dress them up like that and I say it seems likely that you’ll still find yourself fantasizing about the Catholic school girl fantasy over the nurse, unless you just have a really creative mind and have thought of uses for tongue depressors about which the HM readers don’t need to hear.

I say the time has come for a new generation of male fantasies, new professions or looks that excite the male schlong. Personally, I have a thing for girls who drive manual transmission cars and future lawyers, but seeing as I don’t share the common male fantasies, I nominate someone else to lead us out of this dark period.

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6.09.2003

 

Ah, Vegas.

So my cousin decided to get married this past weekend at a nice little resort about twenty minutes outside of Las Vegas. So the family Hose Monster shipped themselves out to Sin City for the weekend to witness the nuptials and engage in a little innocent entertainment.

They must put something in the water there in addition to all that pure oxygen they pump into the casinos. Amusing things just seem to happen there.

For starters, the groom at the wedding had the delightful name of Juan. He’s also white as bleach and hails from Mississippi. A constant source of amusement for my family, but no big deal. However, we learned this weekend that Juan’s father John named his two white sons Juan and Jaques. Just for the record, the mother also traces her roots back to western Europe.

Objectively of course, this has nothing to do with Vegas. But somehow amusement such as this could only happen in Vegas.

Then the constant fake boob patrol that we engage in out there. Again, you could do this somewhere else, but really, it only works in Vegas. Out there you find them, bigger, more noticeable and frequently adorned with leopard print.

Watching Paul Kariya just get the absolute shit knocked out of him by Scott Stevens Saturday with a bunch of drunk people in the Mandalay Bay sports book and then inconceivably coming back ten minutes later and scoring the crucial goal in the game on the prettiest shot you could ever hope to see. Doable somewhere else, but taking on more epic proportions in Vegas.

Where else can you wake up hung over, be soaking up searing sun rays by 9:30, spot a woman composed half of silicone, collagen and plastic sitting next to someone sporting a NASCAR one-piece, with the kept woman drinking a beer and the NASCAR girl with a strawberry margarita in hand, find more than five different Nieman-Marcus shops within a two-mile radius, catch a world-class show, eat at a loaded buffet for under ten bucks and close the evening by bonding with an 80-year old man wearing seersucker pants and a salmon colored shirt with a navy sport coat over a deck of cards?

Only in Vegas, I tells ya.

So I sucked it up on the tables, I only broke even on the video poker, I didn’t drink nearly as many free drinks as I should have and hardly spent any time sleeping or soaking up the sun. And dammit, Vegas gave me a great time once again.

I’ll meet you all out there next time.

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