Hulk saw a phrase pop up again and again in the national dialogue calling Fast Six ‘not a good movie, but an enjoyable one.’ And Hulk couldn’t disagree more.
We have somehow become a culture that only equates good with overt seriousness. Which is a shame because Hulk would argue the last two Fast movies, while incredibly dumb on so many levels, are still two of the most functional summer popcorn movies that Hulk has seen in, like, years.
You may laugh at that word ‘functional,’ but to Hulk it’s one of the best words in all of moviedom. It means the film works, dammit. It means it is engineered properly and does exactly what it sets out to do.
They dramatize all the stakes and spell out exactly what’s happening without a hint of obfuscation. They make overtly sexual movies that at least have the dignity to give their female characters agency and independence outside of scotch-taping them to the men’s stories. They are movies that know how to execute all the basics flawlessly and Hulk would argue that’s the reason they’ve become ridiculously popular and beloved. It’s because they are coherent, clear, classically told stories.
It’s because they actually are good movies.
Henry Texas Comes Alive!
My pal Ken Flagg is writing a new song every week for 52 weeks. Desperate, he asked if I’d write something and record myself reading it so he could skip coming up with lyrics for a week. Some of the stories I posted here recently were aborted attempts at that, but we decided the one about Henry, Texas could work.
Give it a listen and check out his other tunes while you’re there. They’re not all super creepy!
The president said I should write up my life story, people’d be into it. Said he’d give me a nice quote for the cover like “Holy shit bulbs!” or “What the???” —Barack O
But I knew he, like everyone else, would skip over all the heartwarming bildungsroman stuff and hard-earned marketing insights and go right to the three years I spent training with Madame Debbie to learn the elite sex move known stateside as The Bad Windmill.
Thing is I could break it down for you right here, give you all the step by steps, but you still couldn’t do it. You gotta be born with the gift and then taught to control it by an old school sex move sensei like Deb who loathes you at first but over time you earn her grudging respect and then, on her deathbed, she gives you that feeble titty twister that lets you know the student has finally become the master, etc.
Truth be told, I haven’t done the Windmill for years. Not worth it, you ask me. Involves weeks of preparation, a tiresome diet (oh boy raw beets, watercress shots mmm), a primitive sort of Neti pot, something called dark calisthenics, godawful poetry (both reading and writing of) and if you think you’re allowed to pee during all this you can think again.
The actual act is pretty basic and works on either gender equally well. Kind of a Spock nerve pinch combined with this ululation at a specific frequency. Your consort’s skin heats up to where most natural-fiber clothing disintegrates, then there’s a sort of mental orgasm that lasts a couple seconds but feels — so I’m told — more like half an hour. Then the physical one that forever rewires their synapses so from that point forward they exist as the purest version of themselves, whether that’s a good or bad thing.
And me? Zip. My “lover” is off supping upon the very flesh of this world, igniting her soul vapor with pulsating vagina flames or whatever and meanwhile my boner and I are sitting here flipping through the channels, dying for some carbs, feeling like the dumbest god there ever was.
I must call your attention to an important change I made to a recent story posted here entitled The Sex Restaurant.
The Croc-wearing man originally had a chest tattoo that said BUSH SIXTEEN STONE because a song from that album (“Everything Zen”) was playing on the cruddy internet radio station at work as I was writing the story. Then I thought that might be confusing or off-putting so I changed it to BUSH GLYCERINE which I found to be an evocative phrase, particularly when tattooed upon a chest.
But then I thought maybe no one even remembers that song so I changed it to WIERD AL, hoping the “randomness” and misspelling would make the reader … well, not laugh, certainly, but perhaps nod with grim satisfaction?
But just now I remembered I made the character British at the last minute and thought Bush, being a British band (although not successful in the UK) would be a more appropriate chest tattoo and so I have changed it back to BUSH GLYCERINE, which I always preferred. If you perchance read the story the other day and found it lacking, I encourage you to revisit it and see it in a whole new light.
P.S. I shall never forget my friend Bob and I listening to “Everything Zen” when it came out and being confused because it was loud and heavy and guitar-y like the bands we liked, so why was it so awful? We couldn’t articulate it but knew we were in trouble.
Driving crazy fast between two rivers, lights jagged in my mirrors, the radio howling. I doubt I’ll ever be sweat-free again in my life.
The rivers suddenly converge on a rickety wooden bridge and my foot has no idea where the brake is, I mean why would it, it’s only been 25 years since I started driving, still learning the ropes I guess, so I crash into a support beam and skid into the water and I dive out of the car and cower because this is when cars are supposed to explode.
The minivan chasing me squeals in and rear ends my car, sending it deeper into the river. The driver hops out and I get my first good look at him. Here’s what I notice, in alphabetical order:
- boxer briefs
- bushy black sideburns that look weird with no head-hair
- low center of gravity
- sizable chest tattoo that reads BUSH GLYCERINE
- swinging a morning star
He yells: “Tell me where Shosho is and I won’t bludgeon your wee groblin and twin crumbles!”
I mentally add Scottish accent to the above list and say: “You her husband or something?”
“She’s gone, man. We’ll never see that one again.”
“Ain’t look that way back at the sex restaurant!”
“That was a farewell bone, dude. You’d know it if you looked closer.”
He sighs and his mace thumps to the forest floor. “Well,” he says, glancing at my drowning car. “Need a lift back to town? I’ll treat ya to the best boiled bimples and mackalaps in the county.”
“OK,” I say and start to sob. “That sounds horrible.”