Tag Archive | Rocky Balboa

Q: Where Are You Right Now RE: Star Wars 7 Excitement?

A: Same place where I am with Ghostbusters 3. It’s possible Star Wars 7 will crush it Rocky Balboa-style…and yet I accept there’s a chance we’re looking down the barrel of Phantom Menace 2: This Pod Is Still So Wizard. Who knows? It’s a crapshoot. Disney’s gonna churn out a few more Star Warses either way, because those two words are a license to print money. Thus, if J.J. Abrams decides to give Chewbacca a pair of very prominent nipples we’re gonna hafta live with it for six or seven years.

The Case For Ghostbusters 3

Rocky Balboa turned out pretty good, at least good enough to crush the endless Rocky 5,000 jokes. Stallone of all people managed to concoct a satisfying bookend to a decades-old property with a skeleton crew of the original talent. I’m putting my faith in Sony / Aykroyd / Reitman to do the same.

That said, if the climax of GB3 gives us another giant thing walking through NYC I will put a voodoo hex on all involved. No one will be spared, not even the innocent Aykroyd children.

No AIDS For Drago: ’06 In Review

Came across this recap of 2006 (penned by yours truly when 2007 was just days old) tonight in the digital catacombs. Let’s LOL along at how silly I was x amount of years ago.


I greet the new year in style, gorging myself on one of those giant greasy-ass breakfast sandwiches at a Jack in the Box just outside of Charlotte, NC (yes, some of us go to the Carolinas for pleasure). A few weeks later, I get into trouble at my substitute teaching job for telling a high school physics class the moon landing may have been faked. This incident makes me realize the American school system is totally fucked and that I need a new job like yesterday. 


Grandpa Munster dies. I quit the sub gig and officially give up my dream of one day teaching Eskimo children general history for $65,000 a year. My girlfriend gets me a Phil Ochs CD for Valentine’s Day. I return the favor by taking her to Olive Garden.


Harcourt School Publishers offer me a project editing position, which I take, partially because their office is situated directly across the street from SeaWorld. Over the next few months I burn many a lunch break watching dolphins appease their wet-suited, fish-bearing overlords. 


No one attempts to fool me on the first day of the month, and I frown. Scary Movie 4 is released. I see it opening night. The biggest laugh in the film is a Myspace reference.


The “American Idol” finale is almost too stressful to bear. Taylor Hicks is announced as the winner. My McPheever suddenly wears off. I scream “SOUL PATROL!” at the top of my lungs and begin dancing to imaginary harmonica riffs. I am the ultimate sell out.


The band I play drums for goes into an actual professional studio to record two songs. I am proud to make it through the recording process without crying. Later, we all decide to have drinks/dinner together at a local eatery. A fight nearly breaks out when the server refuses to believe our singer’s ID is legit. Cooler heads eventually prevail and singer guy gets his Miller Genuine Draft. I arrive home hoping the cable is on in my new apartment. It isn’t, and I consider sleeping in my car as some kind of misguided protest.


After much soul-searching, I quit the band. The world continues to turn. 


My friend Michael gets free passes to see World Trade Center. He cannot find a single person in the universe who wants to see it, even for free. Too soon? Yeah, too soon.


I lose my job at Harcourt, which comes as a bigger shock than the John Mark Karr confession. Most of my co-workers seem genuinely upset to learn I will no longer be working with them. This makes me feel better. The possibility of a Mets World Series appearance also lifts my spirits.


A friend asks me to play a doctor in his student film. At one point, the script calls for me to pretend to butt fuck a vampire who is high on pot. I do not question my friend’s artistic vision. My girlfriend and I hold a Halloween party at the end of the month. A neighbor assures me said party is “off the hook.”


A new Tupac album comes out. I start to get pumped for Rocky Balboa.


An encounter with a hungry raccoon early in the month proves frightening. I see Rocky Balboa and it meets my high expectations despite the absence of the heavily-rumored Ivan Drago AIDS death plotline. For Christmas, I get a tie rack. Gerald Ford finally dies, but no one cares because James Brown dies like two seconds later.