Alien Ab-suck-tion — by Aaron

Exactly three months ago today I saw a movie and made a promise. The movie was Skyline. The promise was to write a review. Being a man of my word, albeit one who fulfills promises at a glacial pace, I hereby present my thoughts on what is possibly the shittiest, most overtly referential sci-fi movie in the last 10 years, maybe more – my memory is both poor and short.

Of course, a good reviewer shouldn't ruin the movie for those who haven't seen it by detailing the plot, but in this case there's no way around it. Or more accurately, it's impossible to describe this abomination without referencing the multiple sources from which it has been awkwardly cobbled together. Plus, with a movie this bad, the only redeeming factor is the meagre joy one can glean from trashing it after the fact. Ergo, trash I shall.

[Beware! Spoilers follow!]
The story begins with a party in an upscale condo attended by rich, good-looking twenty-somethings (like in Cloverfield) who soon discover there are spaceships outside which turn you into a zombie if you stare at their lights, making gross veins pop out all over your body and your eyes go white (like Frodo when he gets stabbed by the Witch King in Fellowship of the Ring). After blowing up a bunch of shit, the aliens finally reveal their ships hovering over a burnt-out L.A. (like in District 9) and release giant monsters to wreak havoc (like in Godzilla or pretty much 95% of sci-fi movies ever made), while a band of our partygoers struggle to outwit the behemoths and survive (like in Jurassic Park).

Of course, a couple of them get spectacularly smushed or eaten (and the characters are so annoying you're actually glad it happens), at which point the remnants are then pursued through their building by baddies (like in Signs) and then out onto the rooftop (like every crappy superhero flick you've ever seen). All the while, of course, the U.S. Army is battling the aliens (like in Independence Day) while it starts to look more and more like the City of Angels might end up as a skid mark on California's undies (like in 2012).

At this point, my memory gets a bit foggy, but I think the lead actor fights one of the aliens with a big gun (like in Starship Troopers). Alas, this is of no avail, and he and the heroine get sucked up into the mothership, the inside of which is gooey with eggs and larvae (like in Alien. Or was that Aliens?). The aliens are feeding on human energy (like in The Matrix) and end up putting the guy's brain into one of their monsters, but he overpowers it and ends up being an alien with a human mind (like in Avatar). And thus it ends: he's now an alien, she's still a human, both in a spaceship headed for god knows where. Oh, and I think the chick ends up pregnant, although that might have been something I read on the bathroom wall when I left to take a whiz halfway through.

So that's the skinny on this rancid, Frankenstein's monster of a movie. You're welcome for saving you a precious 1.5 hours of your life, plus the eye-strain and price of admission [Edit: Or maybe only the rental fee, by now]. The next sci-fi blockbuster I plan to see? Battle: Los Angeles. The premise? The U.S army takes on alien intruders attacking Los Angeles.

Who's with me??

Guilty Secrets From a Nickelback Fan

Greetings! If hope is still springing for any of you, leading you to check in here occasionally...

Well, first, god bless you. And second, here is your reward: a new guest post for the Guilty Pleasures column. Many thanks to my anonymous contributor, who in my opinion is needlessly guilty about this one. So let's prove him/her wrong, people! Where are the rest of you Nickelheads out there, or Wooden Nickels, or whatever the heck it says on your bumper stickers? Or perhaps it's the Petshop Boys who haunt your dreams?

Friends who have made the mistake of accepting a ride from me during the Boom 97.3 Friday and Saturday disco show know my aural preferences all too well, but I fly my Funkytown flag high and proud. So who's with me? Got a Guilty Musical Pleasure to share?

While I await the flood of your responses, please enjoy this offering from "X":
My name is X, and Nickelback is my secret guilty pleasure. Yes, I know there are radio stations out there that pride themselves on being "Nickelback-free." Some even use it as a marketing device! But I love the bad boys of Hanna, Alberta. I'm well beyond jailbait age, so I'm probably not their target market. But their songs just make me want to dance on the bar, line up those shots of tequila and dive on in! And I'm not the only one. Remember all those Japanese girls singing along at the Vancouver Olympics closing ceremonies? Am I right? They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Case in point: Theory of a Deadman's "Bad Girlfriend." Sure sounds like Chad... If there's a Wii Rock Band version of "Burn It to the Ground," I think I need it. Where was I when the call went out for lip-synchers on the "Rockstar" video? Sure, they got Wayne Gretzky, but does he really mean it? O.K., so if it's me up dancing on the bar it probably should have guard-rails… and I should wear a mask… These five words in my head scream "Are we havin' fun yet?"

Church-Lady Lunches and PoHo Houses

My friend and I travelled to lovely little Port Hope this weekend for their annual house tour. We managed to hit several stunning properties, from sleekly modern to charmingly restored, though we didn't make it to the three out-of-town options. As often happens, my favourites weren't the ones I expected at all. In my opinion, Best of Show was 184 Walton, the restoration of a Victorian townhouse on the main drag. It wasn't just the bay and transom windows and lovingly refinished plank floors, it was the eye-popping tangerine, flame orange, and soft lime paint colours. And the amazing origami chandelier in the dining room that papered the walls with patterned shadows.

A close second was the gorgeous 20 King St., with a kitchen to impress even a culinary philistine like myself (love the punchy, graphic wall of antique clothes-iron footplates!); a walk-in closet lined with meticulously cut-out images of women's shoes; and the cutest and the most British garden shed (below) I've ever seen—and that's saying a lot in a veddy British town.

Thanks to Peter for this photo!

The house below, also on King St. was beautifully restored and renovated, and had a cool office-slash-lounge added in the attic, but the decor was pretty over-the-top frilly and not to our taste. The garden, however, was another story. It was huge, went on forever, and featured a pool area, manicured hedges, and GIANT cedar trees (there's one visible to the right in the following picture; we were all mystified at how they managed to keep them trimmed). And the yard had one more thing at the very back, tucked inside the weathered eight-foot back fence: a dilapidated old barn with an alarming sine-wave roofline but noble character.


Worth a mention, too, was the new property at 103 Augusta, remarkable not only for its four levels of floor-to-ceiling windows stacked on the lip of a ravine, but also for the galleryful of gorgeous art created by the homeowner.

But as it turned out, it wasn't the architecture OR the decor that was the highlight of my day, it was the lunch served at the P.H. United Church. I could not have asked for a more quintessentially small-town Ontario setting, cast of characters, or cuisine.

In the house tour program, the lunch was listed as follows: "Homemade Meat Pies, Coleslaw, Rolls, Dessert, Tea/Coffee." But it was so much more. The program included no mention of the tea-rose tablecloths, the church-basement chairs, the hotel plate silverware, the mix and match tea cups, fresh bouquets in vases, or cheerful church-lady servers. Nowhere did it hint that we would witness those servers dumping the dregs of their coffee and tea pots back into the commercial percolators stationed in the classic, fluorescent-lit church hall. I was in cliché heaven.




And "dessert" doesn't begin to describe the oh-so-WASP experience of the creamy vanilla pudding studded with juicy, canned crushed pineapple and topped with the extra-fancy embellishment of a canned tangerine segment or halved maraschino cherry. WITH an oatmeal cookie! Shades of wedding showers past!



We were delighted with our "refreshments," but will always wonder about the church-lady paths not taken. For example, also available were repasts offered without irony by the Catholics ("Italian Meatball Sandwich, Caesar Salad" [!]), the Presbyterians ("Chicken Pot Pie, Salad"), and perhaps most tellingly, the Anglicans ("Quiche, Salad"). Those crafty Anglicans, however, did go the extra mile by providing the only all-day refreshment station for weary tourists, at which were served "Muffins, Scones and Sweets." After all, it's a hilly town, and on top of that, those houses have a lot of stairs.

So thanks to PoHo for a lovely day: the rain held off, the meat pies were delicious, and, to accompany our end-of-day coffees, our beloved Zest restaurant served us fresh ginger cookies. Even a church lady couldn't have asked for more.

For Mature Audiences Only?

Gentle Readers, welcome back to that spottiest of creatures, my blog (only slightly spottier than its creator). I am delighted to be able to reward those of you still checking in with a most excellent new entry in the Guilty Pleasures series from my talented and deep-thinking pal, Aaron. I know you'll enjoy his thoughtful musings on cartoon-based entertainment, and join me in contemplating how an unhealthy obsession with craptacular fantasy films has clearly derailed an otherwise promising young mind.

Please let both of us know what you think, and whether you share this fixation-that-shall-not-be-named. Most especially, if you have a Pleasure of your own you'd care to divulge, anonymously or otherwise, don't hesitate to get in touch. There seem to be more of you than I ever could have hoped; clearly, our only hope is to form a support group. I vote "doughnuts."

Fresh Pleasures

A special welcome to my second Guilty Pleasures Guest Blogger, the lovely and talented Karen, who dares to share her shameful reality-show secrets. Yours Truly has something of a track record in this area herself, being a former reality show bookie and all. (And I confess that I, too, LOVED Felicity—long may she waffle.)

So c'mon, Gentle Readers, I hear you out there, guiltily tuning in to your Bachelorettes and your Big Brothers. Fess up—who else is hooked on this crap?

Welcome, Guests!

Allow me to draw your attention to the first guest post in my Guilty Pleasures sidebar, a movie review from friend and fellow Pleasure-seeker Susan. Thanks to Susan for taking up the posting challenge, and to you lot still milling around out there in the pre-contribution shadows, let's see yer goods!

Sharing Our Guilty Pleasures

Welcome back, all. Mea culpa for the posting hiatus—I am hopeful the Blogspot desert will soon bloom again.

To that end, allow me to introduce my new Guilty Pleasures sidebar, to the right of your screen. This is meant to be a feature that focusses on a particular cultural product or oddity, and that I hope will occasionally be graced by the critical stylings of my dear Guest Contributors. The first entry is my own, which you will recognize by its inordinate length. I hope in the future to do better at that, too.

Thanks for checking back in.

J.