This is the first poem I'm printing from my Oregon trip. It's in the vein of a Shel Silverstein children's poem, with a nice little moral to it.
"Little Mary's OJ"
"Aw, shucks."
Little Mary said.
"I didn't refrigerate my orange juice."
"Bad luck!"
Her little brother said.
And he ran to Mum to tattle the news.
But Little Mary was clever,
And Little Mary was bright.
So she poured a big glass of the OJ,
And pinched her nose with all of her might.
She drank that glass in one big gulp,
And then she poured another.
She glugged it all til the carton was done,
And in came her dear, sweet, old mother.
"What's this I hear about spoiled juice?"
But Little Mary had been quick as a flash,
"Little brother must be fibbing again."
(For the juice was already in the trash.)
So Little Mary's brother got punished,
And Little Mary got off scot-free.
If you make a mistake, always fix it yourself.
And never a tattler be.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Monday, August 26, 2013
Stranger In A Strange Land Review
I want to focus on the oddities of Stranger In A Strange Land. I don't mean the oddities that Robert Heinlein took as outlandish ideas for a future utopia, but rather the things that Heinlein took for granted that are particularly off to a modern audience. Heinlein sets out to expand the mind, to bring to the front our idiosyncrasies as humans. He takes down religion's hypocrisies while embracing spirituality, explains free love beyond what any hippy commune ever accomplished, and lets the world know the crooks are in government, not behind bars.
For wrong technology, Heinlein's got "stereovision" on the brain instead of television. Why should it have changed its name? It's quite baffling. He predicts video calls, yes, but affixes them solely to land lines and there is a nary a cell phone in sight. Flying cars exist, and even the electronic news tickers stop when the reader looks away. Computers, though, are nonexistent and there is no Internet. I'm not going to fault a writer in 1961 for not predicting the Internet, but Heinlein's future gets us to Mars and back, with colonies on the moon, and yet so much we DO have now isn't even in production.
That's not what has me in a tizzy, though. We're in an age where marijuana legalization is a large issue, and gay marriage is even larger. The debate about equality for sexualities and not just sexes is at the forefront of our national consciousness. And yet, even with Mike's Nest's partner sharing and the mental connections of everyone during coitus, no man-man or woman-woman sex is explicit. The whole point is that sex is not obscene, and is in fact lovely, unless it's made to be obscene, which is "wrongness." Still, only women are ever mentioned kissing men in the novel, even in passing. If it's all about growing together, Heinlein, just have some dudes kiss at some point. Homosexual sex is unnecessary with all the implied orgies. Instead, we get a mention or two of kisses between others being felt metaphysically. In my opinion, it's a lot stranger to have another man inside your mind than simply your mouth.
Jubal Harshaw, the old codger, even gets a taste of the times out of his own mouth. He states that he'd rather have Mike smoking marijuana than becoming a preacher of ill repute. Nowhere else does cannabis get a mention. It just comes out as a horrible outcome, that would still be a better alternative than preaching, which Jubal disagrees with. For a novel touting honest reevaluation of cultural norms and taboos, why doesn't Heinlein take a look at this one? Jubal Harshaw is my favorite character, and in a sense the one I identify with most. He espouses truth and love in a much different way, a way built by experience and a healthy amount of doubt. He judges. It's wonderful, since he knows he's right so he just doesn't give a damn. And here he is, written with a jab at THC that doesn't fit his character. It's like Mike's usage of "ain't." Heinlein always wrote that wrong. Jubal is a realist who would never agree that he's an idealist, and he takes a look at society's arbitrary rules and only agrees to play society's games outside his personal property. He earned his enclave. If he were written today, there is no doubt in my mind he'd support legalization, taxation, and personal choice.
All in all, I did like the book and it should be read by those who are too indoctrinated to read it, or listen to some of the points. Should we use it in accordance with its reputation as the Hippy Bible? God no. It's no manifesto or way to live a life. It is an educational read in the way that certain anthropological texts make the student question the stupidities of modern life. Don't be a jerk, don't complicate things, know your rights, and it's totally A-OK to be naked in your own damn house.
For wrong technology, Heinlein's got "stereovision" on the brain instead of television. Why should it have changed its name? It's quite baffling. He predicts video calls, yes, but affixes them solely to land lines and there is a nary a cell phone in sight. Flying cars exist, and even the electronic news tickers stop when the reader looks away. Computers, though, are nonexistent and there is no Internet. I'm not going to fault a writer in 1961 for not predicting the Internet, but Heinlein's future gets us to Mars and back, with colonies on the moon, and yet so much we DO have now isn't even in production.
That's not what has me in a tizzy, though. We're in an age where marijuana legalization is a large issue, and gay marriage is even larger. The debate about equality for sexualities and not just sexes is at the forefront of our national consciousness. And yet, even with Mike's Nest's partner sharing and the mental connections of everyone during coitus, no man-man or woman-woman sex is explicit. The whole point is that sex is not obscene, and is in fact lovely, unless it's made to be obscene, which is "wrongness." Still, only women are ever mentioned kissing men in the novel, even in passing. If it's all about growing together, Heinlein, just have some dudes kiss at some point. Homosexual sex is unnecessary with all the implied orgies. Instead, we get a mention or two of kisses between others being felt metaphysically. In my opinion, it's a lot stranger to have another man inside your mind than simply your mouth.
Jubal Harshaw, the old codger, even gets a taste of the times out of his own mouth. He states that he'd rather have Mike smoking marijuana than becoming a preacher of ill repute. Nowhere else does cannabis get a mention. It just comes out as a horrible outcome, that would still be a better alternative than preaching, which Jubal disagrees with. For a novel touting honest reevaluation of cultural norms and taboos, why doesn't Heinlein take a look at this one? Jubal Harshaw is my favorite character, and in a sense the one I identify with most. He espouses truth and love in a much different way, a way built by experience and a healthy amount of doubt. He judges. It's wonderful, since he knows he's right so he just doesn't give a damn. And here he is, written with a jab at THC that doesn't fit his character. It's like Mike's usage of "ain't." Heinlein always wrote that wrong. Jubal is a realist who would never agree that he's an idealist, and he takes a look at society's arbitrary rules and only agrees to play society's games outside his personal property. He earned his enclave. If he were written today, there is no doubt in my mind he'd support legalization, taxation, and personal choice.
All in all, I did like the book and it should be read by those who are too indoctrinated to read it, or listen to some of the points. Should we use it in accordance with its reputation as the Hippy Bible? God no. It's no manifesto or way to live a life. It is an educational read in the way that certain anthropological texts make the student question the stupidities of modern life. Don't be a jerk, don't complicate things, know your rights, and it's totally A-OK to be naked in your own damn house.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Hot Dog The Movie Drinking Game
One of my favorite movies, despite and also because of its camp, is 1984's Hot Dog The Movie. Anyone born after 1990 should watch it to discover the joy that is ballet skiing. I took it upon myself to bring its appreciation to a new level with the "Hot Dog Drinking Game," so that young adults on ski trips can kill two birds with one stone. I highly recommend that Hot Dog be watched in a coed setting, since the laughter will double, and the drinking, according to these rules, will increase tenfold. Enjoy.
Hot Dog The Movie Drinking Game Rules
The regular rules:
-Drink whenever you see or hear the words “Squaw Valley”
-Drink when somebody does a flip. Doubles are double, triples triple, and a Kiss Ass Blaster is a quadruple drink
-Drink every time Rudi Garmisch is a “world-class asshole"
-That quote is from Dan O’Callaghan, who you must always drink with
-Drink every time someone bites it, eats it, hits a tree, or otherwise wipes out
-Drink every time that the skiers complain the competition is rigged or unfair
-Drink when one of the Rad Pack is super 80s, Japanese, or puts on sunscreen (Depending on how you define this, this can be quite a lot. Use discretion.)
-If anyone in the group makes fun of ballet skiing, they have to drink until the competition is over
-Drink when either team scores in broomball
-Chug your beer while Squirrel gets a blowjob
And the rules that make coed watching a necessity:
-Chug your beer for as long as you feel sexually or emotionally aroused
-Chug your beer for as long as you feel sexually or emotionally awkward
-Drink double every time you feel both aroused and awkward
Credit where credit is due- the original rules I ascribe to "JDav and KWitts." Comments and additions appreciated.
Hot Dog The Movie Drinking Game Rules
The regular rules:
-Drink whenever you see or hear the words “Squaw Valley”
-Drink when somebody does a flip. Doubles are double, triples triple, and a Kiss Ass Blaster is a quadruple drink
-Drink every time Rudi Garmisch is a “world-class asshole"
-That quote is from Dan O’Callaghan, who you must always drink with
-Drink every time someone bites it, eats it, hits a tree, or otherwise wipes out
-Drink every time that the skiers complain the competition is rigged or unfair
-Drink when one of the Rad Pack is super 80s, Japanese, or puts on sunscreen (Depending on how you define this, this can be quite a lot. Use discretion.)
-If anyone in the group makes fun of ballet skiing, they have to drink until the competition is over
-Drink when either team scores in broomball
-Chug your beer while Squirrel gets a blowjob
And the rules that make coed watching a necessity:
-Chug your beer for as long as you feel sexually or emotionally aroused
-Chug your beer for as long as you feel sexually or emotionally awkward
-Drink double every time you feel both aroused and awkward
Credit where credit is due- the original rules I ascribe to "JDav and KWitts." Comments and additions appreciated.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Last Wednesday There Occurred an Event of Great Fortune
Delving into Facebook notes, I've got this gem from November, 2011. What's funny is that I've now met the girl who I mention in the note, and she's very, very nice. The internet discovered her recently after the College World Series this year, since she's a player's girlfriend. That was kind of a disgusting public sleuthing, so I'm not putting any information here. But those in the know should understand.
Last Wednesday There Occurred An Event Of Great Fortune
Unedited since November 9, 2011 at 10:14pm
Let me tell you a tale about two people.
One is a small boy whom I see every Wednesday as I walk back from linguistics class. Usually he has a look on his face like he's the saddest child in the world. He mopes through campus near the Pauley construction with a backpack that seems to have utterly quashed his dreams with its weight. One time he had a project, a volcano if I recall, and he held it sullenly like the it was the only thing he had left in this world, yet he knew it would soon desert him as well. He's probably only ten, but is the sullenest boy I've seen outside of photographs from tsunami-stricken lands.
The next is a young woman attending UCLA. I have no idea her name, who she is, or anything other than the utter conviction I have that she has the largest breasts on campus. She is a skinny blonde with fantastically flaunted legs, a preference for pink tank tops that show ample cleavage, and too much makeup on. But dear god, her breasts. Each tit dwarfs her head; there is no way they can can be natural, since they stem from such a trim frame. I can only imagine she had her ample bosom naturally and then decided to shoot the moon with augmentation as well. Or she got implants first and unknowingly was a late bloomer in the chest department. I stare more in shock than admiration when I see her on campus.
Today, I saw her again. She passed me by the Wooden Center as I talked to a friend. She continued away down the path. I started walking that way shortly after, my friend having entered the gym. And as I sauntered forward, I saw my friend the sad child, walking from the opposite direction, parallel and passing...
It was good to see him smile.
Last Wednesday There Occurred An Event Of Great Fortune
Unedited since November 9, 2011 at 10:14pm
Let me tell you a tale about two people.
One is a small boy whom I see every Wednesday as I walk back from linguistics class. Usually he has a look on his face like he's the saddest child in the world. He mopes through campus near the Pauley construction with a backpack that seems to have utterly quashed his dreams with its weight. One time he had a project, a volcano if I recall, and he held it sullenly like the it was the only thing he had left in this world, yet he knew it would soon desert him as well. He's probably only ten, but is the sullenest boy I've seen outside of photographs from tsunami-stricken lands.
The next is a young woman attending UCLA. I have no idea her name, who she is, or anything other than the utter conviction I have that she has the largest breasts on campus. She is a skinny blonde with fantastically flaunted legs, a preference for pink tank tops that show ample cleavage, and too much makeup on. But dear god, her breasts. Each tit dwarfs her head; there is no way they can can be natural, since they stem from such a trim frame. I can only imagine she had her ample bosom naturally and then decided to shoot the moon with augmentation as well. Or she got implants first and unknowingly was a late bloomer in the chest department. I stare more in shock than admiration when I see her on campus.
Today, I saw her again. She passed me by the Wooden Center as I talked to a friend. She continued away down the path. I started walking that way shortly after, my friend having entered the gym. And as I sauntered forward, I saw my friend the sad child, walking from the opposite direction, parallel and passing...
It was good to see him smile.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Near East M20
"Near East M20"
In a "chair"
the Droning, Droning
Monotone I know
from teachers here, and
before,
Sapping away any will
with the darkness
like a restaurant.
It's not ambiance,
It's just dim.
The students that file in late
like I did on the first day
have it better than I.
They have only
74 minutes of classtime.
Not 75.
I guess we're just going to have poetry posts for the first few posts here, but I can't fight their ease of posting. These next few are all from Near East M20, the class I took my final quarter at UCLA. The professor's name was Robert Englund, and that class could have its own Nightmare on Elm Street movie. Professor Englund was the classic absent-minded professor, and he could put you to sleep if you weren't careful. Thinking back now, we did slowly lose students over the course of the quarter in lecture. I thought at the time students realized the class was boring and stopped coming to lecture; perhaps something more sinister was going on, and Freddy was killing us all in our sleep. Since I answered one question one time, I guess I was at the back of the killing queue. One shouted answer meant an infinite class participation increase. I fell asleep yes, but also respected Englund for his vast stores of academic knowledge that meant he could tangentially lecture for ten minutes and still not know how to work a computer properly. Freddy Krueger probably has a quip for that. I can imagine a student trying to access the website and it glitching. Suddenly, Freddy pops out of the screen, clawing open the boy's chest and pulling him into the HTML. When the boy is dead and in the computer, Freddy says, "What's the matter? Gone to code?" and laughs at the double meaning.
None of these poems are gruesome, though. The first does make the connection, but not seriously.
"Robert Englund"
Freddy Krueger,
With his cracking jokes,
My professor,
With his cracked tokens.
Street smart vs. book smart,
A wiseass and a bore.
Though they might both
Put me to sleep
Wearing the same sweater.
The absolute best is about how I looked at the Periodic Table of Elements, and well, it gets weird.
"Oh Wait That Says IUPAC, NVM"
In the darkness,
at the top,
It says "TUPAC."
Remaining a mystery,
His troubled troubling death,
untimely- and yet they say
He predicted so much
in his unreleased songs.
I say they say, I do not know.
Perhaps this is why
He Graces the table
that predicted the qualities
of its unknown Contents
in the Columns and Rows
already discovered.
The speculation on Tupac Shakur
is Periodic, coming and going
except for those constant conspirators,
remaining in their agitated states
as the Nobles remain unphased,
Filled to the brim with
Valence electrons.
If He(lium) could Choose
how to respell his name,
once more, would he
Choose HePac or 2Pac
or does he not care about
the proton count?
Yellow solids,
Green liquids,
Pink gases,
and Metalloids in Grey font.
Where is all the Brown,
as all is presented
on a White background.
Each letter is in Black font,
except those Metalloids.
But the elements are placed
in blocks, I see D-Block,
just like prison cells.
F-Block, the radioactive Man-made elements,
are placed off on their own,
in a Solitary Confinement,
Their Danger too much for Nature.
Of the five remaining from that's day poetry session, involving only about ten minutes of actual notes, I'm only going to include two. They're the silliest and shortest, but the other three are in poor taste and poorly composed at the same time.
"Mole Escape"
I am going to play
Mole Escape.
"Super Mole Escape"
I didn't state the name right,
It's properly "Super"
With Megas and Ultras
To speed my Mole
On his way.
I say "his" because
I'm not playing with Matilda.
I send her on her way.
In a "chair"
the Droning, Droning
Monotone I know
from teachers here, and
before,
Sapping away any will
with the darkness
like a restaurant.
It's not ambiance,
It's just dim.
The students that file in late
like I did on the first day
have it better than I.
They have only
74 minutes of classtime.
Not 75.
I guess we're just going to have poetry posts for the first few posts here, but I can't fight their ease of posting. These next few are all from Near East M20, the class I took my final quarter at UCLA. The professor's name was Robert Englund, and that class could have its own Nightmare on Elm Street movie. Professor Englund was the classic absent-minded professor, and he could put you to sleep if you weren't careful. Thinking back now, we did slowly lose students over the course of the quarter in lecture. I thought at the time students realized the class was boring and stopped coming to lecture; perhaps something more sinister was going on, and Freddy was killing us all in our sleep. Since I answered one question one time, I guess I was at the back of the killing queue. One shouted answer meant an infinite class participation increase. I fell asleep yes, but also respected Englund for his vast stores of academic knowledge that meant he could tangentially lecture for ten minutes and still not know how to work a computer properly. Freddy Krueger probably has a quip for that. I can imagine a student trying to access the website and it glitching. Suddenly, Freddy pops out of the screen, clawing open the boy's chest and pulling him into the HTML. When the boy is dead and in the computer, Freddy says, "What's the matter? Gone to code?" and laughs at the double meaning.
None of these poems are gruesome, though. The first does make the connection, but not seriously.
"Robert Englund"
Freddy Krueger,
With his cracking jokes,
My professor,
With his cracked tokens.
Street smart vs. book smart,
A wiseass and a bore.
Though they might both
Put me to sleep
Wearing the same sweater.
The absolute best is about how I looked at the Periodic Table of Elements, and well, it gets weird.
"Oh Wait That Says IUPAC, NVM"
In the darkness,
at the top,
It says "TUPAC."
Remaining a mystery,
His troubled troubling death,
untimely- and yet they say
He predicted so much
in his unreleased songs.
I say they say, I do not know.
Perhaps this is why
He Graces the table
that predicted the qualities
of its unknown Contents
in the Columns and Rows
already discovered.
The speculation on Tupac Shakur
is Periodic, coming and going
except for those constant conspirators,
remaining in their agitated states
as the Nobles remain unphased,
Filled to the brim with
Valence electrons.
If He(lium) could Choose
how to respell his name,
once more, would he
Choose HePac or 2Pac
or does he not care about
the proton count?
Yellow solids,
Green liquids,
Pink gases,
and Metalloids in Grey font.
Where is all the Brown,
as all is presented
on a White background.
Each letter is in Black font,
except those Metalloids.
But the elements are placed
in blocks, I see D-Block,
just like prison cells.
F-Block, the radioactive Man-made elements,
are placed off on their own,
in a Solitary Confinement,
Their Danger too much for Nature.
Of the five remaining from that's day poetry session, involving only about ten minutes of actual notes, I'm only going to include two. They're the silliest and shortest, but the other three are in poor taste and poorly composed at the same time.
"Mole Escape"
I am going to play
Mole Escape.
"Super Mole Escape"
I didn't state the name right,
It's properly "Super"
With Megas and Ultras
To speed my Mole
On his way.
I say "his" because
I'm not playing with Matilda.
I send her on her way.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Poems II
Delving back into high school here for the first, crude one, but its heart truly belongs to the spirit of Phi Psi, where it was read as the opening act of the Fall '09 pledge class talent show. Any hate mail on this one should be directed to Vanderlei Luftwaffle, who I hear entered into a coma in late December 2012 and has yet to come out of it.
Excerpt from "Swiss Vulgarities Vol. 1"
"Takin' Home Fat Chicks Sober"
You may be lookin' super heinous,
But girl you know this average penis
Takes 'em from average all the way up to heavenly;
And on the flip side all the way down to slovenly.
I enjoy blasting off like a rocket in space
No matter what the fuck that is on your face.
Ugliness is not a factor,
I'm going to plow you like a tractor.
-Vanderlei Luftwaffle
(1937- )
The second poem is another limerick, dated October 31, 2011. This was the Halloween I wore a self-designed Captain Planet costume to class, complete with a green dye-sprayed mullet and Smurf facepaint.
"All Hallow's Limerick"
No Halloween spirit? I just couldn't stand it.
So I dressed up like ol' Captain Planet.
But when I wanted to pee,
It took ten minutes you see,
Root suit zippers are tougher than granite.
Excerpt from "Swiss Vulgarities Vol. 1"
"Takin' Home Fat Chicks Sober"
You may be lookin' super heinous,
But girl you know this average penis
Takes 'em from average all the way up to heavenly;
And on the flip side all the way down to slovenly.
I enjoy blasting off like a rocket in space
No matter what the fuck that is on your face.
Ugliness is not a factor,
I'm going to plow you like a tractor.
-Vanderlei Luftwaffle
(1937- )
The second poem is another limerick, dated October 31, 2011. This was the Halloween I wore a self-designed Captain Planet costume to class, complete with a green dye-sprayed mullet and Smurf facepaint.
"All Hallow's Limerick"
No Halloween spirit? I just couldn't stand it.
So I dressed up like ol' Captain Planet.
But when I wanted to pee,
It took ten minutes you see,
Root suit zippers are tougher than granite.
Poems I
These poems are from high school, I guess, as I recently found them in a binder.
Limerick About Poetry
Some poems are actually gems,
Whether written in pencil or pen.
If the humor is hot,
I dig the rhythm a lot,
So with poetry I make amends!
"Arkham Asylum"
Who am I supposed to be?
The answer does not lie with me.
The knowledge lies within a book,
you'll see my face, go take a look.
The gentleman in the next cell
Thinks he's got happy feet.
If it rains outside on him,
He'll waddle out into the street.
Across the hall's another crook,
He's not in Kansas anymore.
If I were a horse I'd chomp his bones
And put his clothes at the farmer's door.
Limerick About Poetry
Some poems are actually gems,
Whether written in pencil or pen.
If the humor is hot,
I dig the rhythm a lot,
So with poetry I make amends!
"Arkham Asylum"
Who am I supposed to be?
The answer does not lie with me.
The knowledge lies within a book,
you'll see my face, go take a look.
The gentleman in the next cell
Thinks he's got happy feet.
If it rains outside on him,
He'll waddle out into the street.
Across the hall's another crook,
He's not in Kansas anymore.
If I were a horse I'd chomp his bones
And put his clothes at the farmer's door.
Origins
Hallo.
Deciding to create a blog while watching Jean-Claude Van Damme's 1996 action flick Maximum Risk may seem like a silly endeavor. Realizing that you already created a Blogger blog 2 years ago makes it even sillier, especially when you happen upon its name- Blogota, Colombloga. Well, I've decided to go through with the blogging and to never change the name. It's awesome. I changed the URL though, since jimmydavoren.blogspot.com is a lot simpler to spell than blogotacolombloga.blogspot.com if I ever want any sort of internet traffic.
With that wonderful lead-in, I give you all the first post in Jimmy Davoren's blog. I am excited to start posting here, but even more excited to share the things I have learned from Maximum Risk:
a) Natasha Henstridge is utterly slammin' and has Grade A boobies, and
b) apparently in the 80s and 90s what constituted the female posterior started a solid foot higher up on a woman. Great butts were a joint project embarked upon by glutes, lower backs, and genetics.
c) in comparison to Carl Weathers' Action Jackson, it would seem that a badge pales in comparison to a gun for commandeering a vehicle, even for police officers.
Here some things I didn't learn from Maximum Risk:
a) JCVD is awesome
b) I wish I could be a JCVD character, kicking ass all over the place with a European accent and a karate-sculpted body.
Why did we not learn these things from Maximum Risk? It's not that they're false. It's that we already learned both lessons the first time I ever watched a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. 80s/90s action stars and Will Smith give immediate, personal "box office" pull to any movie. Animated features do the same these days, if I understand the plot. Turbo is not something I want to ever see. And if we're listing stuff I like, Hot Dog The Movie is true tops. It's on Comcast again, for free. What a (possibly softcore) film.
Deciding to create a blog while watching Jean-Claude Van Damme's 1996 action flick Maximum Risk may seem like a silly endeavor. Realizing that you already created a Blogger blog 2 years ago makes it even sillier, especially when you happen upon its name- Blogota, Colombloga. Well, I've decided to go through with the blogging and to never change the name. It's awesome. I changed the URL though, since jimmydavoren.blogspot.com is a lot simpler to spell than blogotacolombloga.blogspot.com if I ever want any sort of internet traffic.
With that wonderful lead-in, I give you all the first post in Jimmy Davoren's blog. I am excited to start posting here, but even more excited to share the things I have learned from Maximum Risk:
a) Natasha Henstridge is utterly slammin' and has Grade A boobies, and
b) apparently in the 80s and 90s what constituted the female posterior started a solid foot higher up on a woman. Great butts were a joint project embarked upon by glutes, lower backs, and genetics.
c) in comparison to Carl Weathers' Action Jackson, it would seem that a badge pales in comparison to a gun for commandeering a vehicle, even for police officers.
Here some things I didn't learn from Maximum Risk:
a) JCVD is awesome
b) I wish I could be a JCVD character, kicking ass all over the place with a European accent and a karate-sculpted body.
Why did we not learn these things from Maximum Risk? It's not that they're false. It's that we already learned both lessons the first time I ever watched a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. 80s/90s action stars and Will Smith give immediate, personal "box office" pull to any movie. Animated features do the same these days, if I understand the plot. Turbo is not something I want to ever see. And if we're listing stuff I like, Hot Dog The Movie is true tops. It's on Comcast again, for free. What a (possibly softcore) film.
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