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6:05 a.m. - 2004-03-25


I'm a "Dawn of the Dead" fanatic.

I saw the original movie in the University of Tennessee theater in 1981.

I screamed.

Yes, a burly college student known for his escapades with alcohol, illegal drug use and getting in bar fights, screamed in terror in a movie theater.

That movie was THAT scary in its day.

Today (well ... actually yesterday) watching it on the TV at home during the afternoon after having seen it some 20 times over the last 20 years ... it's lost a lot of its ability to make me scream in fear.

Hell, it's lost all of its ability to make me scream.

Still, I hope that someday it scares the shit out of my son just like it scared the shit out of me.

Anyway, I went to see the remake Tuesday afternoon.

I can't really give a review of it. I liked it. I didn't scream. I appreciated that it was different enough from the original movie to the point that it was a different movie following the same premise.

I loved the beginning.

And for those of you who've seen it already and didn't stay during the closing credits ... you stupid dumbass. You missed the end of the movie.

A lot of people got up during the credits and left. I thought in my head as they left "These idiots don't read Entertainment Weekly".

But you have to watch until the end of the credits to find out what happens to the survivors.


Just call me Gene Fucking Shalit.

I'm all about cohesive movie reviews, huh?

And seeing how I was the last person on Earth to see "Donnie Darko" and "Zoolander", I watched those yesterday during my movie marathon.

Liked Zoolander.

Didn't really "get" Donnie Darko. I liked it okay but once I kinda lose track of what's going on in a movie, I'm screwed. I spend too much time trying to figure out what just happened and not paying attention to the movie as it continues.

And don't tell me to hit the pause button.

If I do that I'll just get up and wander around the house until I find something else to do.

Which, nine times out of ten, means masturbating to internet porn.

I kid, I kid.

Seven times out of ten.

My left nostril and sinus have been stuffed up for two days.

My right nostril and sinus are fine.

In fact, my right nostril and sinus have been very cooperative and compassionate in the last two days.

"Hey Uncle Bob," my right nostril said yesterday. "If you want, tell the left nostril to shift some of that snot over here. We've got plenty of room over here. We're dry as a bone over here. C'mon dude. We can handle the snot."

I've really gotta stop chugging Nyquil day and night.

I brought Andrew home early yesterday since it was a nice day and I figured he could play with the neighborhood kids until it got dark.

Which he did for a while.

And then he wandered off to a neighbor's front porch and didn't want to play anymore.

So I went to get him off the neighbor's porch.

"Move Daddy," he said as he pushed me away from the porch.


Somebody was making a stinky and wanted to be left alone.

This leaves me in a quandry.

If the neighbor lady comes out on her front porch and finds my son grunting and wanting to be left alone, she's going to think my son's a nutcase and she'll put her house up for sale in a matter of days.

So I'm standing in the neighbor's front yard, trying to coax Andrew off the porch.

"Are you all done?" I kept asking him.

"No," he'd reply, squatting and grunting.

"Well, hurry," I'd say as if the kid has the power to will his bowels to speed up the process.

Soon, just as I expected, the other kids wandered over to the house to see what was wrong with Andrew.

So there's Andrew, shitting on a strange porch while his peers watch him and wonder what he's doing.

I've had nightmares like this before.

After what seemed like an eternity of having to make up answers to the neighborhood kids questions of "What's he doing?"(I found the most logical excuse was "long division in his head") Andrew toddled gingerly off the porch and into my arms.

"We're going inside now," I told the kids as I scooped him up and started walking toward the house.

I think they think we're some kinda weirdos.


My son.

The neighborhood psycho.

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