I Wanna Be A Dedite

Some would say that I am not just a movie buff, but rather that I am a movie fan.

"Fan", as in its root word "fanatic", meaning: One having excessive zeal for and irrational attachment to a cause or postion.

Huh-huh, huh-huh; I wrote "zeal".

I spent my formative college years with my good friend Eric Lahti, wtaching just about any movie we could get our hands on. And some I wished we hadn't been able to. Somehow, staring at the smallish screen for hours on end changed my genetic make-up, and now I can only exist on a strict diet of movies, stale popcorn and gum found under the seats.

It's a sad life, but at least I'm not a writer.

This explains why I can quote obscure movies like Free Enterprise (a movie about Star Trek fanatics meeting Willian Shatner), Mean Guns (a movie about hit men killing each other) and Logan's Run (a movie about . . . hmmm, what the hell was Logan's Run about??).

It explains why I don't have anything close to a steady girlfriend; though I think that the Spock ears and the light saber might have something to do with that. Take note fellow fanatics: mixing universes is never attractive.

Perhaps I should get the Klingon ridge-implants I've always wanted.

This would also explain why, this last Thursday, I ditched my rock-climbing partner, stood in a sweltering bookstore with a whole mess 'o freaks, and waited two hours just to meet a man.

But not any man.

This was Bruce Campbell.

Yeppers the Bruce Campbell.

Now, because I am a movie fanatic, it's no surprise to me if you haven't heard of "The King". He was in Salt Lake City as part of a promotion tour for his book If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B Movie Actor (signed copies of the book are already selling for upwards of $75 on auction sites). Now, I've never read an autobiography before, because . . . well let's face it, they're boring. Why would I want to learn how much Zsa Zsa cried after slapping that cop? What could I possibly learn from Keanu Reeves about acting that I can't get from one of his movies?

Whoa. I can act. Excellent!

But Bruce Campbell, as he has done with his career, had a different take on this as well. Having starred in such prestigious films as Evil Dead, Evil Dead II Dead by Dawn, and Evil Dead III: The Army of Darkness (patterns anyone?) Bruce certainly is a self-described genre actor. But it's where some of his most famous and most often quoted lines have originated. After being teased for being "Good Ash" by the Dedite (pronounced "dead-ite") "Bad Ash", Bruce's character quips, "Good. Bad. I'm the one with the gun." he then proceeds to blow Bad Ash away with said gun. In dipping co-star Embeth Davidtz prior to a kiss, he says, "Hail to the King, baby." (hence "The King's" nickname).

But that's not all he's done.

You might recall a short lived psuedo-western series The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. where he played (you guessed it) Brisco County Jr. And of you fans of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys starring Kevin Sorbo, or Xena: The Warrior Princess starring Lucy Lawless (both directed by long-time friend Sam Raimi) will have seen Bruce as Autolycus The King of Theives (the nickname lives on). He has also had some minor roles in major films like Congo (where he gets killed shortly after the credits role) and Escape from L.A. (where he shows up and gets killed, but much later in the film). He will also be appearing in the 2002 release of Spider-Man (though thankfully he won't be killed). His most recent series, Jack of All Trades was just cancelled, but that doesn't mean the end of this legend.

Hell no!

If sales of Bruce's book are any indication of this actor's following, then The King will be with us for quite some time. I was informed by the man himself amid all the Goth-looking Dedites (yeppers, these fans have adopted the same name for the zombie characters) and the nerdy-geeks (i.e. my people) that If Chins Couls Kill had just hit #19 on the New York Times Best Seller list. This may not necessarily be so much a tribute to the worth of the peice as American Literature (no need for you English grad students to go get a copy just in case you have to answer a question) but rather the fact that everyone in the bookstore, including me, had at least two copies of the book. (No, I am not selling the second copy on Ebay, though now that I think about it . . . Kathy, I'll be needing to "borrow" your copy.)

But the book is good.

If you like that kind of humor.

Which I do.

Bruce wrote the book himself (just read it, you can tell) and he takes us through his life up to his current work and an interesting description of his fan base. It's untrue to say that he sprinkled his autobiography with amusing but interesting anecdotes . . . because they make up over 90% of the book. But it does take us through a sarcastic and humorous look at "how to" be an independent filmmaker, as well as a wanna-be cult icon. Perhaps I should send a copy to Christopher Lambert and Julian Sands. (Bonus points if you can name any of their movies OTHER than Highlander and Warlock respectively; no cheating!!)

The best part of this whole "meet Bruce" event, aside from actually shaking Bruce's hand and having a brief Scottish moment (he remarked on my name and how we "Scots need to stick together") and an even briefer Michigan moment (he was born in Royal Oak for all my friends in Michigan) was just looking at all the people with whom I am associated via Bruce. Sure, I'm used to being considered a geek and a nerd. It comes with the territory. But all the tattoed, pierced, black-clad, baby-toting freaks I truly hadn't realized shared my obsession; that's unique.

We certainly crossed a lot of lines as fans. If someone had dimmed the lights and passed out white robes, we would have looked like the audience waiting for Thulsa Doom to desend from on high to address his people.

That's how diverse this group was.

That's how diverse Bruce's appeal is.

It Came From Beyond

At times I think I can head Rod Sterling in the background of my life: "Picture a man, ordinary in nearly every way to the point of mediocity. He's about to take a wrong turn on a path that will leave him screming in fits of terror while bangining his head against the nearest cement wall; all the while mumbling, 'Why? Why? Why?' He's about to enter: The Relationship Zone."

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . .

To wit: I once had a girlfriend who came over to my apartment to tell me that we couldn't see each other because God didn't want us to. I would like to say that I told her not to let the door hit her fat ass on the way out, but I didn't (mostly because she was skinny as a rail). The upshot of this story is that a good friend of mine used this little vignette as a comic moment in one of his competitive monologues.

Art must reflect life after all, and when God hates you, that's just good comedy.

The relationship (shocker) didn't work out and later, God told me to go out for beer and not come back.

God, in my experience, is one individual you should always listen to.

Most people don't like to be alone, least of all me. There is something in the human condition that finds safety, security and comfort in being with others. Perhaps this harks back to our roots as a mud-grubbing Neanderthal-man who found that mob tactics worked pretty good against the stronger, faster and generally more agressive animals . . . like women.

Oh, my!

Did I say that out loud?

To be honest, I am bugged by the seemingly genuine perception that [men/women/other] are made up entirely of liars, cheats, mooches and all around bad people. The old standby that can only be considered a joke from cursory observations is: How can you tell that a [man/woman/other] is lying? Their lips are moving.

Funny, huh?

About as funny as Bob Saget.

In a coma.

More recently I saw a bumper sticker that stated, unequivocally: Boys Lie.

If this were always the case, then shouldn't our society have adapted more like the fabled Amazons from Greek myth? The Amazons would capture or entice men into their realm only for the sole purpose of procreation. Otherwise they found socializing with men to be, on the whole, useless.

That must have saved the average Amazonian "victim" on the steak dinners and the sappy, romantic Greek theatre while wondering if the Spartan team was going to be any good for that years Olympics.

But seriously folks, all [men/women/other] can't be conniving, bloodthirsty, backstabbing lechers. If so, then I just sent two dear friends to their ultimate doom.

Besides, I like sappy Greek theatre.

Or at least it's modern equivelant: the sappy, romantic-comedy movie.

I like romance in general, and no, I'm not gay. You can put that on your list of stereotypes that must go.

I think flowers are the perfect gift for nearly any occasion. I think a night on the town doesn't necessarily have to start with a beer (though that's not a bad way), and I'm pretty certain that holding the door open isn't that big of an imposition.

Unless you prefer dining alone (which you may) . . . it's a door. You insult it's purpose by not opening it!

But this still brings me back to my original (Zounds, too many English classes in college for me) thesis statement: Relationships are hard.

Once you get past all the propaganda that your gender of attraction is basically evil, and past the initial discomfort of approaching someone for a date, and then working past several dates into a "defined relationship" (don't even ask me how this ever occurs, I usually falter at step two), things get hard.

There's the communication, the lack of communication, the desire for more communication, the need to communicate on the same level.

Almost makes me wish I'd gotten a degree in the subject.

Bragging Rights

Unless you are bald, then I bet you didn't know it was possible to burn the top of your head! That being said, it should signify that I went on a manly trip this weekend!! How do I know that it was manly (other than the fact that I the used two exclamation points to signify just how manly it was)?

That's simple.

First, we camped out. That's right; among the sticks, stones, bugs and dirt of Mother Nature, we slept. I lit a fire, burned the hair from my hands and forearms, and alternated between breathing smoke and being cold.

Camping out is always very manly!

But that's not all! Yes, there's more!!

Some of us didn't camp out. The manlier (not "more manly" for those conjugation fools out there!) undertook the classic Road Trip. Thwarted by flight plans, plagued by delays and lost luggage, these brave souls slung themselves carelessly down a midnight run, past the Hour of the Wolf (between one and three a.m.), and through a picturesque sea of tranqulity (i.e. pitch black night with all sane traffic home for the night), all the time attempting to not wrap their car around a tree.

You know you are being manly when you try three times, unsuccessfully to wrap your car around a tree.

And the manliness hadn't even begun yet!

That's right boys and girls, this wasn't just another roughing it in the wilderness trek. Hell no! This was a white-water rafting down the Snake River. Any river named after the Judeo-Christian Old Testament embodiment of Satan has got to be manly. And after a full day of shooting the rapids (any time you can use the term "shooting" is always very manly) we were burned, cut, scrapped, waterlogged and exhauseted.

But we were MEN.

All except for one of us, that is. She's a woman. But she's also a woMAN.

Example: There is a Class 5 rapid called "Big Kahoona" (I had to look it up too!!). A word to the wise, when going through a Class 5 rapid without a raft (i put that in bold so you wouldn't miss that we didn't have a raft under us when we went through the rapid . . . very manly) one should always take a deep breath before the first wave covers your head. This has the added advantage that if you miss the very next opportunity to gasp for breath, you should have just enough air left to make it through the third wave before you pass out alternately from taking in too much river water or the hypothermia inducing temperatures of the river.

How did we come to be shooting (manly) a Class 5 rapid (super-manly) without a raft (ultra-manliness)?

I couldn't tell you.

Honestly!

Why would I encourage the group to shuck off our rather sturdy and otherwise safe water-craft (in this case a leaky rubber raft that we continually had to be filling with air even as we floated down the river), and venture into Big Kahoona with only our life vests between us and a raging river of certain death (our wits being left on the shore next to the raft in a neet pile)?

Let's just say that if I was made to testify in court, I would probably end up purjoring myself with that statement.

The truth is that men, especially those attempting to take the mantle of "manly men" need to be able to brag. They need bragging rights. They have to be able to say, over their fourth beer, with all the sincerity and honesty a man can muster (not currently measurable by scientific methods) that they have out-run, out-jumped, out-drunk, out-cooked, out-belched, out-farted, out-cut-their-arm-nearly-off-their-body before a comittee of similar "manly men" in order to be counted among such an illustrious group.

Why not just make it up?

Pa-shaw!

You can't make up manly events and still be expected to remember them while working your eight or ninth beer (beer drinking in excess is very manly). At some point, you're going to be asked if the story you told earlier in the evening is really true, and after a heavy bout of manly drinking, you're going to be lucky to remember if your head is still attached to your shoulders, much less if your I-killed-a-two-ton-bear-with-a-toothpick story actually has cohesion.

No.

Only the truth will do.

And then you must have a story worthy of bragging rights.

But next time, instead of bringing the manliness, I think I'll just bring the hot dogs.