How difficult is it for the Hollywood studios to come up with an original screenplay, script or clever idea?  Or is it far easier to steal a film that's been done before (and so much better!) and do it again?

This remake crap just has to stop!  There ought to be a law against it.  Take, for example, "The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3."  It was a pretty good crime drama released in the late seventies.  So why bother updating the story of a crew of gents who decide to hijack a New York subway train full of folks for ransom?  Maybe the meeting went like this:  "Okay, we replace the train detective" (originally played by Walter Matthau) "because who wants to see a frumpy actor like that today.  Instead, let's put in someone like Denzel Washington--he's box-office gold!  And, instead of an understated actor like Robert Shaw (sure, he was good in "Jaws," but we're talking about a subway train, not a blood-thirsty shark!), let's have John Travolta play the leader of the gang taking the train.  The guy ain't Vinnie Barbarino anymore!  No, he's proven he can play a greasy hit man with Tarentino in "Pulp Fiction."  And maybe we can get him to do a little dance to make the ladies hot?!  Yeah, we'll see some big numbers on this movie!"

But, here's the thing:  Having a great, unattractive character actor like Matthau as the dude who saves the day was a prime move on the casting director's part because Walter is a whole lot more believable in the role than a toned-up, brown-eyed, handsome man's man like Denzel.  That's why the seventies were an incredible time for movies. You could never make a film like "The Deer Hunter" today because the average movie-goer (or Netflixer) will not sit through a three-hour-plus drama. But, oh, sure, they will suck down their large sodas and chomp on that fake butter-flavored popcorn with the whole family watching some slick car-commercial chock full o' CGI disguised as a sci-fi action film called "Transformers" 'cause Things Get Blowed Up Real Good!

I could've never imagined in a zillion years that the classic Hitchcock horror film "Psycho" would be remade, but longtime indie-film director Gus Van Sant took the plunge.  Gus, baby--what the f' were you thinking?!  Nobody (are you listening, Brian DePalma?) can be the genius that Alfred Hitchcock was.  And placing comedic wise-ass Vince Vaughn in the brilliant killer role that Anthony Perkins so sublimely made iconic couldn't possibly work.  The fact that the original was done in black & white was perfectly chilling, but Van Sant decided to remake it in color.

Rocker Rob Zombie loves old horror flicks and figures that some of them, such as "House of 1000 Corpses" and "Halloween" could be done with even more background story plus gore, so he's making his own versions.  The multi-pierced, tattooed youthsters have gone simply psycho over Rob's "Devil's Rejects" remake and even dress up like the nasty characters at screenings a la "Rocky Horror Picture Show."  No matter how much the critics tear his films apart, Rob's reworks have their cult following.

Even Hollywood directors have done their remake-nasty all over popular French movies such as "La Femme Nikita."  They thought:  If we can dumb it up for an American audience with big U.S. stars, then it will be cha-ching! at the box office.  They called the American version "Point of No Return."  The original is a stylishly uber-violent film about a female criminal trained to be an assassin for the government, and it's got a smokin' hot babe named Anne Parillaud in the title role.  The remake?  It put Bridget Fonda in Anne's stiletto heels and Harvey Keitel as "the cleaner" killer.  Harvey was passable, but he was definitely no Jean Reno!  And, please, Bridget Fonda?  No way, baby.  But the joke is on the Hollywood assclowns because "Point of ..." bombed at the box office, while "Nikita" soared.  And the French original had a limited release in art theatres, to boot.

Here is a list of movies that never needed to get the do-over treatment but did anyway:  "Lolita," "The Manchurian Candidate," "Wings of Desire," "Cheaper by the Dozen," "The Out of Towners," "The Getaway," "The Haunting," "War of the Worlds," "The Day the Earth Stood Still," "The Day of the Jackal," and "Bad News Bears."  If all this isn't enough to make you want to burn, Hollywood, burn, how about this:  I heard that L. Ron Hubbard-following, couch-jumping, acting fool Tom Cruise bought the rights to "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" and wants to play Robert Redford's part as "Sundance."  Hopefully, the (L. Ron) Hubbardship beams his ass up before the whole fiasco goes into production.     

Michael Jackson has moon-walked out of the building!
 
Like many other cynical mofo critical critics out there, I've got my share of mixed feelings about perhaps our strangest (but no denying talented and entertaining) American icon dying from an apparent longtime addiction to painkillers.  Yes, MJ has to be the strangest.  You want proof?  Try being the proud owner of the following:  Elephant-Man's bones, hyperbolic oxygen chamber, life-sized androids, exotic jungle animals and children's amusement-park rides.  Why would a man of 50 have these things in his collection?  The latter items (robots, creatures and kids' rides) because the guy who most of the world placed on a God-like pedestal was an incredibly lonely, insecure man-child who just wanted to be loved.  He lived in a place called Neverland Ranch where he could fancy himself Peter Pan.  The former items because, let's face it, he was a freak.
 
When Michael was a mere large-afro'ed, groovy-clothed lad in the Jackson 5, he knocked our sox off working his adult James Brown dance moves and emotionally charged voice.  But by now we're all aware that the group's controlling, angry prick of a father brutally beat--and probably molested--a few of his own children, so Michael definitely never had what you'd call an "ideal" childhood.  Fucked-up, at best, from that kind of abuse.  The boy was damaged goods and that's painfully sad when you really think about it.  His own mother just let this shit happen and will forever live in denial that anything was wrong in her (f'ed up!) "loving, perfect family."  It's no wonder why Michael wanted to distance himself from his parents; wouldn't you?!
 
If the troubled young man had someone looking out for him (Berry Gordy, Diana Ross, etc.) who sought out serious therapy for him, the screwed-up pop idol might not have written or performed so powerfully.  Instead, he took comfort in Demerol and Oxycontin to try to kill the horrors of his life.  But, without those emotional demons--deep anger and sorrow--would his onstage performances and recordings be that intense?  The drugs only temporarily squashed them, but he held on to those demons and used them to fuel the fire in everything upon a stage or studio.
 
I wasn't a fan of "Thriller" and his disco-era material, but nobody can deny the talent he displayed throughout all his catalog.  I dug the Jackson 5, and a young Michael's solo recording about a killer rat named "Ben."  The song was written for the soundtrack of a B-horror movie by the same name.  The heart & soul that the teenaged Jackson sank into this tune dedicated to vermin is beautiful--and poignant enough to've made the cut for my wife's and my wedding CD.  (And check out Crispin Hellion Glover's video version of the song used to promote the rat-infested remake of "Willard," the prequel to "Ben."  It's definitely not as cool as Jackson's, but it's worth your attention).
 
A friend of mine recently posted some of Michael's mid-1990's lyrics to a song that speaks volumes--yep, it's called "Morphine":

He got flat baby
Kick in the back baby
A heart attack baby
I need your body

A hot kiss honey
He's just a bitch baby
You make me sick baby
So unrelying ...

A hot buzz baby
He's one of us baby
Another drug baby
You so desire

Trust in me Trust in me
Put all your trust in me
Your're doin' morphine

Hoo!

They got place baby
Kicked in the face baby
You hate your race baby
You're just a liar ...

Always to please daddy
Right up and leave daddy
You´re throwing shame daddy
So undesirable

Trust in me Just in me
Put all your trust in me
You're doin' morphine

Go'on babe

Relax
This won´t hurt you
Before I put it in
Close your eyes and count to 10
Don't cry
I won't convert you
There´s no need to dismay
Close your eyes and drift away

Demerol
Demerol
Oh god he's taking Demerol
Demerol
Demerol
Oh god he's taking Demerol

He's tried
Hard to convince her
To be over what he had
Today he wants twice as bad
Don't cry
I won't resent you
Yesterday you had his trust
Today he's taking twice as much

Demerol
Demerol
Oh god he's taking Demerol
Hee-hee-hee
Demerol
Demerol
Oh god he's taking Demerol
Hee
Oooh

OH!!!!! ...

Hoooo! ...

Hoo-Hoo!
I'm going down baby
You're takin' Morphine

Go'on baby!
Hoo!
Hoo!
Morphine!
Do it!
Hoo!
He's takin' morphine
Morphine!
Morphine!!

I know ... damn, right?  That's pretty raw.

After the news hit, I found out, much to my surprise, that one of my wife's ex-boyfriends (who runs his own private-jet company) flew MJ to certain destinations.  On hearing of Jackson's death, he didn't have flattering words:  "Knew him. Flew him. Scumbag, pedophile, drug addict, alcoholic, freak. Good fucking riddance.  When he shows up way down south, I only hope Lucifer says, 'Where the fuck is yer nose??? I paid for that!!!!'  Rot in Hell, "Thriller"."
 
The troubled (was anyone in that family NOT?!) Jackson--like father, like son--was probably laying his hands on small boys and that's not cool.  Actors Corey Feldman and Macauley Culkin should've "beat it" as fast as their little legs could run when Michael took a liking to their cute, boyish looks.  MJ was quoted to say he really loved Culkin's bee-sting lips--and soon got his own done to resemble the "Home Alone" tyke.  But, no matter what accusations were made involving his "spotted penis," the millions of adoring fans loved that crazy dude.

What will be the backlash of MJ's death?  There have been at least a few fathers of small children that I know exclaim, "It's a very good day.  With Michael Jackson dead, all the children of the world are safe!"  Despite those out there who are pleased that one more (alleged) pedophile is gone, there are a zillion more fans who are cleaning out the Michael Jackson CD sections across the nation, and the globe.  And, sometimes, those people are one and the same: my wife's ex quickly followed his scathing personal comments about MJ with, "On the other hand, I enjoyed much of his music."

Musicians like Alien Ant Farm (with their remake of "Smooth Criminal") and Weird Al Yankovic (with his numerous parodies) will gain another 15 minutes of fame from Jackson's death.  But is that a bad or good thing?

The bottom line is this: Michael Jackson touched a lot of people's hearts ... and a few people's parts.    

"The more you drive, the less intelligent you get". One of my favorite lines from the punk cult classic "Repo Man". Words to live by for me. Could be a few reasons why: a) Wrecking a High School Driver Ed vehicle into a guardrail while attempting to parallel park. b) miserably failing my motor vehilcle driving test (see: Driver Ed). c) flipping over on the back of a motorcycle. d) being a passenger of a camper Van that rolled over twice. or e) all of the above. At the ripe age of 47 I still don't drive or even own a driver's license. It's just not in the cards for me. And it's not like I haven't had many friends offer to help guide me on my way to the MVA. No thanks freinds. The way I have to look at the whole thing is: is the fact that I never could get parallel parking down my downfall or the upswing of my meager existence? I choose the second one because I get by okay without a license or a car. I have a little thing called ADHD that tends to get in the way of driving so believe me: the world is a far far safer place without this punk geezer on the roads.

A friend of mine who goes by the name The Reverend Frank love once told me "I think you're really smart not to drive because there are so many fucking psychos on the road". The Rev spent a large portion of his life in a state of stress being in a car. Well, that and being a guitarist in bands with me. I'd be a passenger in Frank's small car when someone on the road honked their horn and "Goddamnnnnit! Stop honking your fucking horn! I really fucking hate that! People in Michigan (The Rev's birthplace) never honk their horns!", Frank yelled in frustration. I'd say "Calm down man, your window is closed and they're not going to hear you". This kind of reaction happened fairly often when I was riding to someplace with my friend, Frank. It left me wondering why someone who would get so incredibly worked up every time they were at the wheel of a vehicle put themselves through such punishment. More reasons why I still don't drive.

Oh yeah, getting back to that "rolling over in a vehicle" thing I mentioned so casually earlier: This perhaps is my all-time biggest reason why I don't dig the thought of driving. One rainy afternoon in England my band Government Issue and our support act Bad Blood decided to visit Stonehenge. Who knew that after checking out the mighty Stonehenge we'd suffer a most horrible accident. "Come visit Merry old England! Play a handful of noisy memorable concerts! See the majestic Stonehenge! Take a bloody nasty spill in one of our fabulous British camper Vans!". And that's exactly what we did. The young driver from Bad Blood drove a tad too fast around a sharp turn of roadway and so we slid off the road rapidly on to the muddy ground and rolled over (Twice!) till the beat-up Van soon landed on all four wheels. Now I've always hated amusement park rides that other people love because I just do not enjoy being tossed about. They make me nauseous so that's no fun, right? This ride in the UK sucked! A few of my band members shot straight out the side windows landing on the ground with injuries. The poor young man behind the wheel went straight through the windshield and the rest of us got out with only cuts and scratches. We were all pretty lucky as it could've been a fatal one. I'm still a little shaky whenever I ride in a van. I think I'll just stick to taking the bus or maybe the subway. After all I am an underground rocker.    

John Stabb was the frontman for the legendary harDCore punk outfit Government Issue. When not blogging for BLURT, he currently serves as frontman for Sleeper Agent. Check them out at http://www.myspace.com/sleeperagentdc      

Does musical genius = nuttier than a free pecan nut log with every gas fill-up at Stuckeys?

Well, maybe you're a wee bit too young to remember Stuckeys, so I'll just give you a brief description of the place: Stuckeys was a really crappy souvenir shop that posed as a roadside eating joint.  Oh, yeah: they also had a gas station outside for folks to get one of their pecan nut logs when you filled up your tank.  They also disappeared after the '70s (along with the mood ring)--so don't feel bad that you missed all that because I can tell you as a fact: The '70s sucked!  Anyhoo, back to the musical-genius thing ...

Enter Phil Spector.  The infamous studio genius cranked out some killer songs between cranking back the trigger on the gun he held on various musicians, like the Ramones, and perhaps his lovely singing wife, Ronnie Spector.  Phil was all crazy and power-tripping in the studio but never actually shot anyone--that is, until recently, when he got drunk, took a B-movie actress/waitress back to his fancy home, put a gun to her head, and killed the poor unsuspecting woman.  Whether it was by accident in one of his manic episodes or not, he's finally getting locked up.  Found guilty of murder, the guy's serving time for his crime.  A very sad story, indeed.

How does that saying go:  Insanity is one step away from genius?  And Phil sure had some insane wigs on during his courtroom time.  Brian Wilson seemed crazy as a loon when after far too many acid trips, he took his fat ass to bed to live in, eating popsicles while he composed the brilliant "Pet Sounds" for the Beach Boys.  And that is the best album that band ever did.  Genius.  I'm glad Brian Wilson never killed anyone ... just a few hundred brain cells.

Then there are everybody's favorite nutlogs, I mean "Musical Genius" pair: Syd Barrett and Roky Erickson.

Syd fronted and composed for The Pink Floyd way before leaving the group to go solo and the other members became four geezers, a lasershow and a pig balloon - ha!  That band was just a boring (though far more popular) rock group by the name of "Pink Floyd."  But The Pink Floyd created a brilliant psychedelic classic album, "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn."  That record is a gemstone amongst the asscrap of the '70s.  In it, Barrett had clever, spacey lyrics about gnomes and a strange fellow named Arnold Layne.

Of course, young, trippy Syd was known to crush up handfuls of Mandrax and Brylcream to melt into his hair and stand completely silent in front of his audience as the drugs seeped into his skin.  That's some crazy shit, huh?!  Well, that and dropping acid like it was candy, too.

When all the Floyd fans were dying to hear the band's pop hit "See Emily Play," Syd did not appease them.  Intead, the loopy singer stood there like a statue pissing them off.  That's a hell of a punk act to pull off.

Syd left The Pink Floyd to do his own thing, which was seriously hit-or-miss territory.  But, no matter how scattered Barrett's ideas came off on his solo recordings, they're sure more interesting than anything off that "Dark Side of the Moon," which is more than influenced by Barrett's genius.  ("The lunatic is on the grass-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s" ... what a load!).  Sadly, Syd stopped making recordings--about everything from an "Effervescing Elephant" to a "Vegetable Man"--after a few sessions, shaved his head, and lived in seclusion with his mother until recently passing away.

Last up: a young kid named Roky Erickson from Texas, who didn't dress up all fancy and mod like them English boys making weird music.  Roky looked like a gas-pump jockey and so did his band, The 13th Floor Elevators.

With an intensely garage-y rock vocal and crazy harmonica playing, his debut album, "The Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators," was one animalistic slab of wax.  Like Syd, Roky dropped more than his fair share of hallucinogens and was said to have mental illness.  Erickson was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, forcibly spent a bit of time in a loony bin and got involuntary shock treatments.  Roky's still kickin' out there, but his performances are not all together, musically or mentally.  After he left the Elevators and went solo, his songs of romantic abandonment (a theme he'd earlier visited in such tunes as "You're Gonna Miss Me") took a comic-book turn ("I Walked with a Zombie").  This new, horror-fantasy tone, on the surface "safe" pop-rock, actually reflected Roky's state of mind at the time: in 1982, he asked a Notary Public to sign off on an affadavit officially declaring that a Martian had taken up residence in his body.

All these cats influenced many artists, so they must be doing something right!  Let's hear it for those wild & crazy guys, the musical geniuses.  Would you like a free alien implanted into your head with that tank fill-up, sir?

John Stabb was the frontman for the legendary harDCore punk outfit Government Issue. When not blogging for BLURT, he currently serves as frontman for Sleeper Agent. Check them out at http://www.myspace.com/sleeperagentdc