Back again, like the intertransversarii muscle...

 Check one-two...check one-two. Is this thing on? 

Six years later, with the roadblocks of jail (got out), cancer (beat it), and a heart attack (became responsive after forty-seven minutes of being clinically dead) shrinking in the rear-view mirror, I'm back like Quasimodo, with a lead foot on the gas pedal, Fat Mattress II on the stereo, and a pocketful of yum yums for the brunettes. Just mind the Minotti leopard upholstery, baby. 

I'll be broadcasting live from the funk bunker here at Chez Bippy with no shortage of Wop-isms. When I sit down to add my thoughts on the state of the world and popular culture, I catch myself slipping into old, familiar, snobbish territory, sharpening my tongue in anticipation of the outrageous elitist shit that will surely flow off of it once more. And I'm not even promising that it won't in the end. Knowing me, it probably will. I've also gotten pretty comfortable banging out daily capsule reviews of movies of all sorts over at Letterboxd of late, so get over there, sign up, and follow me to the promised land. Dedicated to the glorious memory of "Cowboy X", Christopher Andolini/DeAngelo/Zike, without whom my life adventures would be considerably less wondrous and plentiful, with fewer illegal substances. A noi, camerata!

"Fasten your seatbelts; it's going to be a bumpy night." - Margo Channing (Bette Davis), All About Eve (1950)

Back, like the intertransversarii muscle...

       Cue your yellowed cassette of Black Francis und gang that you picked up from Vintage Vinyl after a successful weekend of card sharkin' the local so-and-so's outta their beer and spare change back in the eighties, 'cuz here comes your man (again). Personally, I've been playing the fuck outta some vintage British psych outfit,  Mandrake Paddle Steamer lately, but that's just where my head is at these days, maaaan. I go where it takes me,  at forty-six. That's right, forty-six, like the Year of the Consulship of Asiaticus and Silanus. Took the words right outta yer mouths again, didn't I?

       Anyway, it seems every time I'm ready to stop reviewing movies over here for you guys and move on to greener pastures, I end up catching slack from more than a few of you for such unthinkable thoughts. So here we are again. I've watched more than enough new and old stuff to keep you occupied, some films more notable than others, but I'll probably cover 'em all, in my own inimitable way, of course, before my next desktop's sudden fatal heart attack (I'd never attempt to lay out a site like this on anything less, like those newfangled tablets and such that you beard-kids like to play around on), along with some top ten lists, and whatever else I happen to dream up, as per usual. Within the next week or so, my dynamic new audio podcast, Project Bedlam, will also be publishing it's first episode, and there's at least one (probably two) YouTube channels in the works for mid-November. I'll give your mothers a moment to collect themselves and stop hyperventilating.


 
"How you makin' out, (insert-your-mom's-name-here)?"

Year Eight, or The Triumphant Return of Your Mother's Amazing Technicolor Dreamboat

Hel-lo, ladies...remember me? From the discotheque.

Just a head's up to all my patient little woprophiles grooving out on life while I've been otherwise occupied, cursing another foul sow of an East Coast winter wreaking havok on my arthritic middle-aged joints, and sorting my funking life out while planning my course of global assault (once the weather breaks, Gods, I'm older than that empty Quaalude script you've got nostalgically tucked away in an attic trunk next to a big box beta copy of New Wave Hookers), which includes lots of new genre reviews by your main man here at one of  your favorite way stations of exploitation for the past eight years running. Those of you that have been reading all along should know all too well by now of my propensity to go dormant for several months at a time, to recharge mein batteries, refresh the perspective, screen some new stuff, and focus on my usual inimitable brand of pagan balls-out decadence that leaves mothers worldwide a sopping wet, trembling mass of spent sexual energy. I assure you, I've done all of these things in our time away from each other, and will continue to do so as long as it's sexy to me. And it's all still REAL sexy to me, so break that up, pack it into the glass slider, and put some fire to it, motherfuckers. Wopspl oi!oi!oi!-muthafuckin'-tation. Misogynist black gloved killers, helpless pillow-chested knife-cushions, seventies crime drama, groovy drug-soaked sex orgies and ritualistic sacrifice, ecological terrors and monstrosities, you name it (as long as it's not named Freddy Krueger, haha), we've got some for 'yer. Year eight kicks off...right now.

Yet Another Reason to Look Forward to Halloween This Year...

As if the fall chill in the air wasn't enough of a harbinger of another gloriously sinister season of Halloween hijinks nearly upon us, as diligently reported by the Rock Father, the fine folks at General Mills have upped the Monster Cereal ante this year, by serving up not only the usual seasonal suspects in Franken Berry, Boo Berry, and Count Chocula, but also resurrecting both Fruit Brute and Fruity Yummy Mummy for the discerning breakfast palates of trick or treaters, old and young. Though I remember seeing Fruit Brute on the grocery store shelves with my mom back in the mid-seventies, I never gave it a second look, hardcore Franken Berry addict that I was, at the time. Boo Berry had also once been tops, in the days of color-coordinated/flavored peg-shaped marshmallows, footie pajamas, and such, but I never personally fucked with the Count until one of my concubines finally spooned some into my reluctant yap during the double-aughts. I vaguely recall seeing the commercial for the Mummy stuff in the late eighties, but I'd replaced cereal with cigarettes by then. All cereals will be available in mint-looking retro boxes at Target sometime in early September, with the modern packaging, pictured above, being offered everywhere else. In keeping with my current spirit of inclusivity, I'll be giving both fruit chumpys a go, but my true loyalty remains with Frankie and his strawberry-flavored sweeties, as always. Nuge.