A few years ago I visited Peru with Tony Hawk. Tony had learned via a CNN profile that Peruvian chef, Virgilio Martinez, had grown up as a skater in Lima in the '90s. Since then, Virgilio traded in his skateboard for a cutting board and he is now an internationally renowned chef and an ambassador of Peruvian cuisine—mostly due to the success of his Lima restaurant, Central, rated the fifth best restaurant in the world on "The World's 50 Best Restaurant List" (Central is currently sixth). So Tony DM’d him.
One of the great treats about now having Dave Carnie contributing words to our Luddite site is that: a) I'm no longer the sole voice of questionable reason; and b) Dave has a much more worldly and wise mind and, as such, always has exciting new tidbits of knowledge to drop on me in the midst of casual eCommunication. Curiously and fortuitously, one of our latest exchanges just so happened to provide a heretofore unknown to me label for something I'd been planning to blahg about in conjunction with our upcoming annual Halloween* release: a mortified movement!
I don’t like movies. Waste of time. Actors are cocksuckers. Pretending and playing make-believe is not an art, or even a talent. It’s just lying. So I found it rather amusing when StrangeLove asked me to write some posts for the site and among the various subjects they suggested was: movies.
Today's debate: the veracity of the saying, "Never meet your heroes."Generally speaking, this is true. I mean the phraseobviously exists for a reason—granted, not all reasons arerooted in reality, but I'llspare the morose existentialism for anothersunny day—and there's certainly no short supply of experiences out there to corroborate its generational persistence. The obvious takeaway from all that being mystery and intrigue are almost always better than a glimpse at what really goes on behind the curtain and some things are best left to ones imagination. Especially nowadays in our social media-centric world where direct, unfiltered access to the thoughts and actions of the famous has never been more easy and, consequently, never more disastrous, discouraging, disheartening, disappointing, and many other dis-oriented words.
There are things you'll hear about while growing up that will remain with you for a lifetime. Today's case in point being the Green Door. I first heard of it early on in my teens while dumpster diving at the home video store where I'd spend all my hard-earned paper route money on VHS rentals. I was particularly fascinated by the cult films, especially those in the schlocky bowels of the horror and sci-fi genres, and whenever I discovered a new director I'd not only ingest their entire filmography but I'd chase the associated rabbits down each and every hole I could possibly find*. Where am I going with this? Well, David Cronenberg was one such director I took a shine to and I started off with Videodrome** (1983), which proved to be a real mind fuck as a kid, and from there I devoured Scanners (1981), The Brood (1979), and, the whole point of this random ass intro: Rabid (1977),starring Marilyn Chambers, who made her screen debut in the seminal pornographic film Behind the Green Door (1972)—yes, the very same film that Jackie Chan popped into the video player in his car in The Cannonball Run (1981), a trivial reference that had me convinced all my stars were in perfectly squalid alignment.