The 100 Most Heinous Cultural Atrocities of the 2000s: #60-51
January 1, 2000 to January 1, 2010. It was a long ten years. And sucko.
Wallow with me once more—won’t you?—through 
an annotated ranking of the lowest of the loathsome, the dankest of the despicable, the most woeful of the worst.
One hundred steps to Hades, spread out over a decade.
Come, now. Again. Then rue … forever.
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The 100 Most Heinous Cultural Atrocities of the 2000s: #80-61
January 1, 2000 to January 1, 2010. It was a long ten years. And sucko.
Wallow with me once more—won’t you?—through an annotated ranking of the lowest of the loathsome, the dankest of the despicable, the most woeful of the worst.
One hundred steps to Hades, spread out over a decade.
Come, now. Again. Then rue … forever.
********************************************************* Read More
The 100 Most Heinous Cultural Atrocities of the 2000s: #100-81
January 1, 2000 to January 1, 2010. It was a long ten years. And sucko.
Wallow with me—won’t you?—through an annotated ranking of the lowest of the loathsome, the dankest of the despicable, the most woeful of the worst.
One hundred steps to Hades, spread out over a decade.
Come, now. Rue … forever.
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Worst of the 2000s: The Complete and Utter Goddamnable Castration of Mainstream Rock Music
Our ongoing look back at this dying decade’s dankest of dire nadirs.
Time was, when you added cellos, French horns, woodwinds and such to rock music, per se, you got In the Court of the Crimson King, Days of Future Passed, “Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving With a Pict“, and Rick 
Wakeman’s monstrous, uttterly mind-roasting King Arthur on Ice at Wembley Stadium thing.
Giants roamed the earth and stormed countless stages in those days. Giants with tubas and bassoons and, above all, engorged genitals aching to concoct racous reveries.
Then came the ’80s, when the presence of orchestral instruments produced Bourgeois fucking Tagg (two g’s, I made sure).
Hang on to you colostomy apparati and watch this video.
Seriously. Click play on that video. Watch the Bourgois Tagg. You’ve got to do it.
Then come back here and read more.
Homicidally nihilism-igniting and just plain old stinky, ain’t it?
Worst of the 2000s: Cameron Crowe’s ALMOST FAMOUS
Day one of a look back at the most damnable detritus from a decade rife with 
detestable doozies.
ALMOST FAMOUS (2000)
WRITER/DIRECTOR: Cameron Crowe
CAST: Patrick Fugit, Kate Hudson, Billy Crudup, Jason Lee, Frances McDormand, Zooey Deschanel, Phillip Seymour Hoffman
Okay, let’s get one important stumbling point out of the way pronto.
Yes, formerly pubescent/permanently pudgy Rolling Stone scribe Cameron Crowe did write Fast Times at Ridgemont High, both the book chronicling his undercover investigation into late-’70s California teenage wastedness, and the screenplay for the classic 1982 film comedy upon which not enough 
praise can be heaped and which, therefore, needs no further addressing here.
Probably ever.
So Cameron Crowe does have Fast Times going for him.
That, and nothing else.
Almost Famous isn’t the most heinous Cameron Crowe crime-against-stomach-lining to date—that honor goes to Elizabethtown (a dementia-inspiring atrocity that you must not miss)—but it does perfectly embody everything despicable about this mega-drip 
whose goopy sentimentality can not even be dwarfed by his Abominable Cro-Magnon Man jaw.
Worse, and more importantly, Almost Famous perfectly illuminates the awfulness of those who don’t properly despise Cameron Crowe and all his mawkish oozing.
You know who they are: adults who see John Cusack hoist that boom-box in Say Anything and then don’t automatically erupt into lust for prison-rape (“In Your Brown Eyes”, indeed … just the brown one) or, worse, those who invoke the name “Lloyd Dobler” while reminiscing about the impossible standards the characters set for all “us guys”, haw-haw-haw.
The 2000s: Horrible Times, Wonderful Horror (Except for the Goddamned Zombies)
The Beginnings of My End-of-the-Decade McBloviations: The Internet as the Enemy, French Horror, Underground Atrocities, the Vagification of Vampires and the Death of the Living Dead.
Right about this time, ten years ago, my sphincter violently clenched shut at least a dozen times a day in response to one loathsome anti-wit after another who’d cock a phony grin and wonder aloud: “So this is the year 2000? What the heck, man? WHERE ARE THE FLYING CARS?”
And now, in retrospect, I wish I would have just let fly and exploded feces, right there on the spot, each and every time.
A knowing wink-wink and/or elbow nudge-nudge, implied or explicit, typically followed the “FLYING CARS” quip, 
and the specific punchline may have been “teleportation” on occasion, and numerous salty yuk-meisters substituted “fuck” for “heck” (prompting me, just this minute, to realize that that euphemism is actually an amalgam of “hell” and “fuck” and, therefore, our mightiest pseudo-obscenity).
But the infantile fluid-flinging was on the wall. Or more specifically, it was on the Internet, which meant it was everywhere, all the time, in everything. And then it was all anybody could talk—not talk about, mind you, just … talk.
The larger implication of the “FLYING CARS” idiocy crapping up everywhere on mass auto-repeat was the ultimate catastrophe of human communication that this miserable race has thus far devised: the internet “meme” and its attendant assaults on adult 
discourse, both spoken and written— e.g., “LOL!”, “WANT!”, “DO NOT WANT!”, “OM NOM NOM NOM!”, “OBAMA! OBAMA! OBAMA!”, and grown men punctuating sentences with smiley faces.
In keeping exactly with pronouncing the name of the department store Target as the fake en francais (and therefore fancy) “Tar-zhay”, the dribbling meme-goloid always, always presents his nugget as though he has just thought it up on the spot.
Consider phrases such as the prefix “SUCK IT, [whoever or whatever]!”, the suffix “['Go do something' or 'See you somewhere'], BITCHES!” and the grotesque incorrectness: “Glee really amazingly captures the American high-school experience.”
But … ah, Jesus Jim Caviezel Christ (there’s a timely outburst. Credit me). Who cares?
Those #$@*ing Adorable ’70s & ’80s Kids Movies
Out of the filthy mouths of babes: Remember when family fare felt incomplete without obscenity-spewing children being presented as though they were just darling as SHIT?
The Bad News Bears (1976) is nothing less than a little masterpiece (and I don’t just mean that as in “little league”), which—coming directly after the brilliant So-Cal teen beauty pageant send-up Smile (1975)—should have permanently established director Michael Ritchie as Hollywood’s 
humanist (as well as humane and maybe even just human) Robert Altman.
Alas, it is not for Ritchie’s joyfully spiky satire, flawless evocation of time and place, or his uproarious, yet wonderfully warm, humor for which The Bad News Bears is most immediately remembered.
It is for the fact that the movie’s pint-size ball-players swear like sailors or, perhaps more accurately, like actual grown-up ball-players.
Back in the McBeardo Groove. HARD.
Mucho stuffo has gone on in The Private Files of W. Michael McBeardo in recent times. Hence these disgustingly uncharacteristic long lapses from a mick mensch who prides himself on prolific output.
Some business came to a frothy head that had been tumbling down the pike for a while.
Upon returning from my Jersey Shore vacation in late August, I began suffering from pulsating migraines and violent nausea, relentless in their intensity, around the clock.
This past Monday, something happened, and on Tuesday, I woke up joyfully devoid of head-horror and gut-death … and that was WITH Perez Goddamn Hilton reeking up the Howard Stern Show.
Thus I am back. Here. HARD.
So let’s rattle off what you haven’t missed, because I didn’t write about it: I severely 
enjoyed the Herzog/Cage Bad Lieutenant; I’ve been working my way through the actual Ozsploitation nuggets featured in a the smashing documentary Not Quite Hollywood (the best so far being Long Weekend ; all things Mad Max aside, of course); Inglourious Basterds is my favorite movie of the 2000s (runners-up include American Psycho, Battle Royale, Inside and Martyrs); the Thanksgiving episode of Dexter was one of the greatest exercises in horror I’ve ever seen; and I will always and forever love, adore, and feel profound gratitude toward Mr. Skin.
And so, alas, we arrive at a place of new beginnings.
This ought to be good. Really. I mean it.
Multimedia McBeardo: Heavy Metal, Halloween Horror, Lisa Crystal Carver, Lisa Loeb, New York Ripper, Loverboy
While the McBeardo blog has been quiet this week, McBeardo the Superior Manly Specimen has been on fire behind the scenes.
It comes down to this: I’ve been taking what they’re givin’ cuz I’m working for a livin’, workin’ for the weekend, taking my own job and shovin’ it right 
they sign my (Johnny) paycheck, et cetera.
So as we gear up to bang on the drum all day in Party Town cuz it’s a five o’clock world and it’s five o’clock somewhere and, on top of that, since Monday I’ve had Friday on my mind, and it’s Friday, I’m in love, let’s rundown my recent whereabouts. Eh?
Most spectacularly, Eric Danville’s Official Heavy Metal Book of Lists hit stores and the space taking up pages 42 through 48 may be the least of what’s so skull-bangingly beyond awesome about it.
And make no mistake, those five pages that were written by me – counting down 13 Heavy Metal Horror Movies and 13 Metal Cameos in Non-Metal Movies – are 
magnificent.
But the entire Official Heavy Metal Book of Lists is a work of wonder. Buy now!
Second, ever-heroic Lisa Crystal Carver interviewed me on the topic of Lisa Loeb’s 1994 impact on various cocks, balls, and the universe.
Her entire article is typically Carver brilliant and, yes, I just linked you to Vice magazine.
Third, start visiting the Mr. Skin Blog every day. There you will regular features such as:
THIS WEEK IN SKINSTORY – The current edition highlights the death of Rainbeaux Smith, the birth of Larry Flynt, Susan Dey letting her Partridge pair free in Looker, and Kim Kardashian butting up Playboy. Next week: fun facts on the releases of I Spit on Your Grave, Full Body Massage, 52 Pick Up, Betty Blue, and Catherine “Daisy Duke” Back going lesbo with Leslie Caron.
SKIN LIST – Connecting dots and spots between various noteworthy movie nudity moments. At present: 9 Hot Nude Scenes in Horror Movies from 2009.
RETRO SKIN – For Halloween, a salute to the Euro-lovelies of Lucio Fulci’s New York Ripper (1982).
For Halloween, Mr. Skin also posted a killer Q&A with Re-Animator director Stuart Gordon.
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If you’re reading this and not hating it, odds support the probability that you’ll enjoy these new, regularly scheduled Mr. Skin Blog features.
I’m just not supposed to tell you who writes them.
(Hint: it isn’t Lisa Carver. That mix of personal fluids and SpaghettiO’s on her that you see here, however, is mine.).
Linksploitation: October 23, 2009
Vice magazine (bleccch) showcases random covers from Screw magazine (yay!) while the ever-heroic Dirty Danny Hellman has created an entire blog dedicated to these brilliantly unsanitary artifacts! (Screw Magazine Cover Art Blog)
Howard Stern in the 1986 curiosity, Ryder P.I. (YouTube)
Salute to the other Poor White Trash (2001) which – while not in league with the 1957 Poor White Trash or 1974’s Scum of the Earth aka Poor White Trash 2 – is itself an unsung gem. (Movies About Girls)
Brian Yuzna’s Society (1989) certainly did disappoint me at the time. This review, however, intrigues me anew. And whither Screaming Mad George these days? (House of Self-Indulgence)
Lightning Bug niftily rounds up noteworthy horror sequels. (Lightning Bug’s Lair)
Supersex! Take proper precautions and delve deep into Europe’s greatest and/or grossest spank mag of the 1970s. (Blonde Zombies via Cinema Sewer)
Mr. Skin pays video tribute to Scream Queens. WHO is doing that succulently brilliant voiceover? (Mr. Skin)
