The Eclipsalypse Cometh

Holy Mary, Mother of Cyberspace, last Friday was a shit storm on the good ole' interwebz!! My twitter feed was constipated dominated all damn day by Twihards either excited beyond belief, or wicked disappointed in the "final" Eclipse trailer which premiered on The Oprah Show.

Wait.....whadda fuck?!? The Oprah Show?!?

Well...that's certainly a "cutting edge" decision from the genius folks in Summit's marketing department. And by cutting edge I mean so catastrophically stupid and devoid of common sense it's mind boggling to those of us with even a sub-par IQ. What the hell is in the water at Summit's corporate headquarters that causes what I assume are relatively intelligent human beings to make such epically idiotic marketing decisions?

I imagine the board room convo went something like this:

Marketing Genius #1: "Well, the New Moon trailer premiered on the MTV Video Awards. We shot pure Twi-adrenaline right into the arms of our target audience, whipping the fandom into a frenzied tidal wave that we rode straight through to opening weekend. As a result, the movie broke box office records and went on to earn eleventy-gaziilion dollars for the studio."

Marketing Genius #2: "Fuckity-fuck, we can't have that happening again, our actors might get huge egos and demand decent salaries! Let's try something new. Let's scare the shit out of the fandom by firing the editor while we're balls-deep in post production, and then start rumors that we don't like Slade's cut of the movie, and we need last-minute reshoots. Then, we'll threaten to hire Hardwicke to do them."

Pimply-Faced Intern: "But Sir, that's all true."

Marketing Genius #2: "SHUT IT you little pisstard - and refill my Jack & Diet Coke. Then, let's put together a trailer that has zero of our core story, angle it to attract men to see the movie by stuffing it full of action & CGI, and then premiere it on a show that airs during the day and to a demographic of almost exclusively women ages 25-60, therefore COMPLETELY missing our target market!"

Marketing Genius #1: That's absolutely brilliant. We are officially smarter than God. Do you think we'll get a raise?

Marketing Genius #2: Does Kristen Stewart smoke weed?!?

___________________

Okay, before you all crucify me, let me just say that I do love Oprah, and I didn't hate the trailer. I just wasn't blown away by it. And damnit, considering all the hype and secrecy surrounding the making of Eclipse, I wanted so fucking much to be shocked & awed. I was shocked, but not awed.

Here's my reaction vid from the YouTube Channel:

Natch, my hubby, being a testosterone-based life form, thought the trailer was "badass" and now he's more excited for 6/30 than I am. Apparently, Alice going all "Matrix & shit" is hot. Whatever.

As for me, I just wanted more of Edward and Jacob in a pissing match over Bella (cough*tentscene*cough), and more of deliciously horny Edward almost losing his shit and straight-up impaling Bella in his bedroom (ahem*leg-hitch*ahem) on that coppery-silk bedding which I am in LOVE with and of course, can't find anywhere.

Hence, my preference for the new "mash-up" trailer which makes me feel oh, so much better:

Oh, and let me just ring in on the ring.

I've heard many people say it's hideous and they hate it, yet it fits Steph Meyer's description from Eclipse, nearly exactly. You can't bitch that you want absolute, by-the-book authenticity and then whine like Jessica's New Moon zombie rant when you get what you asked for. Besides, something tells me that Kristen saw that ring and said "Hot Damn...that's so fucking ugly that I want it."

Hell, don't tell me that if Edward tried to slip that puppy on your finger you'd balk. The boy could offer me a plastic spider ring from a gumball machine at Wal-Mart and as long as it meant I was getting laid on Isle Esme, I'd be grinnin' like a cat shitting razor blades.

Just sayin'.

Hello Daddy, Hello Mom...I'm your Ch-ch-ch-ch-Charlie Swan!

Yes, I blog infrequently. Mostly because I'm fucking lazy, but also because I share the "overexposure" fear with The Precious One. I write when I have something to say, and when I don't, I shrink back into obscurity and read fan fiction, other cool blogs or obssesively follow the cast. That's my dealio. Just so happens this week, I have shit to say.

Last Friday, I finally had the opportunity to see The Runaways, which is a biopic set in 1975 about the lives of Cherie Currie & Joan Jett, and the first all-girl rock band, The Runaways. I was nine years old in 1975 and the extent of my musical exposure was my mother's Neil Diamond & Barry Manilow albums and the occasional Roger Whittaker 8-track that rattled around the floor of my dad's 1969 Ford El Ranchero. (Which, incidentally was the locale for my first vehicular sexual experience, but I digress.)

 Of course, since the movie starred Kristen Stewart & Dakota Fanning, both of whom I adore, I was excited when my normally lame local theater added showings for this past weekend, so I'd have the opportunity to learn more about the genesis of the female rockers. Plus, obvz....Joan Jett is a badass and I was curious to see just how Kristen would fill those enormous platform boots.

My review is short & sweet:

1 - Swiss-cheese script, so-so directing & the movie never gained a full head of steam

2 - KStew and DFann ROCKED the ever livin' shit out of their characters

 3 - I was so impressed with Kristen's vocals I swear on my AC/DC Back In Black vinyl that I had tears in my eyes.

I mean.....SERIOUSLY.

The movie should have had a whole lot more of that and less of Michael Shannon playing a raging cokehead with bad dental hygiene. Of course, the director Floria Sigismondi didn't ask me, but she should have. (Her name makes me think of a sigmoidoscopy which is a medical procedure during which a tube in threaded through your anus so the ass doctor  Proctologist can see your colon. Again, my digression leads us in strange places, but just go with me, ok?)

Final observation: Kristen and Dakota deserve to win "Best Kiss" on the MTV music awards, because that shit was HOT. If I'd seen this movie in my more formative years, prior to my exposure to peen, it may have convinced me that switch-hitting was the way to go. Just sayin'.

Also causing me to have a rampant case of the moisties this week is the panty-'sploding news that my favorite DILF on the planet, Billy Burke (a.k.a. Charlie Swan) will release an album this summer, and he's cool enough to let his fans preview an unmastered single from the album - song called "Removed". I'm not sure how long it will remain active, but as of 3:15 p.m. CST today, the free download was still available on Billy's new site at http://www.billyburke.net/ Go listen. The Burkemeister has pipes.

I have made no secret of my undying devotion to Billy Burke. To me, the man single-handedly made Twilight a palatable movie for those of us unable to survive on Rob's hotness alone. Billy brought actual acting chops to the movie and for the love of all that is manly facial hair, he gave us the Charlie Swan pornstache and a deep, abiding love for single law enforing dads struggling to raise teenage daughters with death wishes.

Here's an old vid from my YouTube Channel, an ode to the B-Man himself:

I'm sure by now, most of you know that the final cut of the Eclipse trailer will premiere on The Oprah Show this Friday. How curious. Really? I never would have guessed that Summit would choose that outlet to air this long awaited preview of the film, but whatever-the-fuck. Not much else they do makes sense either, so why start now? (Read: I'm still pissed about the dismissal of Rachelle LeFevre and yes, I'm the President of Grudge Holders Anonymous.  We never have meetings because we just stay pissed off at each other.)

Yeah, I'll DVR Oprah, but I'm still trying to decide if I'll have the self control to refrain from watching it at work once it hits YouTube, or if I'll make at attempt at the more mature approach (questionable), and record myself watching the trailer at home & share it with y'all.

Stay tuned.....

MC OUT.

Robeanism - My New Religion

Yeah, I've been MIA again. Whenever I drop from the face of the blogiverse, you can be sure one of two things is happening. I'm either monumentally fucking LAZY, or real life is being a total ass muncher. I can assure you, my excuse this time is the latter. After all, I DO work in an industry where our busiest time is March through July, I still have little cougars in the den, and I'm still hitched to a Papa Cougar who likes an occasional mating session, if you kwim?

There's all that, and then there's THIS:

That's right. This Mama has spent the last month preparing for the New Moon DvD release party I've been planning since November of 2009. And let me tell you, it was seriously badass. My liver is still recovering.

I'm not even going to attempt to blog about my party, partially because the Jell-O shots clouded my memories of just about everything that happened during our viewing of the movie, and partially because my new bloggy bestie 17ForeverLisa came to the party (crazy bitch drove over three hours which made me fall in love with her immediately) and she did a MUCH better job of capturing the essence of our epic fuckery in this blog entry: Mama Cougar's DvD Release Party Kicked Ass!

There....NOW do you see what I've been up to?

When non-Twi people ask me why I do things like this, I usually say something like, "Second childhood I guess" or "I have no earthly idea". But the truth is, I found the reason I truly love this fandom and all it's quirks this past weekend. I found it in the thirteen ladies and one brave man who came to my party. It's all about the amazing people I have met and our mutual addiction to The Twilight Saga.

I've lost track of how 17ForeverLisa and I hooked up except that we're both huge fans of JennyJerkface and SnarkierThanYou over at Twitarded and we're both huge Illini fans. I invited her to my party, and this very ballsy woman accepted my invite and then drove 3+ hours to come to a strange little town in the middle of corn and beans to hang with people she didn't know. Not only that, she brought me THE MOST FUCKAWESOME gift EVER, a real roll of New Moon trailer film cell. I seriously almost cried. But wait, there's more. Wether by fate or happy accident, we were watching the "bonus features" together when at precisely the same time, as Rob appeared on the screen wearing the "Beanie", we both squealed like stuck pigs. It was in this moment, that I knew I'd found my soul sister.

We've since discovered that we are not alone in our love for Beanie Rob, in fact, there's an entire underground movement of Beanatics who love, adore, and dare I say worship the Beanie. So, I've decided, it's time to come out of the winter storage bins and into the mainstream hat culture. The time for Robeanism has come.

Every religion has it's tenets. Today, I will outline them for you. First, of course, is our deity, the beloved Robert Pattinson, wearing atop his head, our Holy Relic, the Beanie.

Let us pray.

Most gracious and beloved Beanie, your adoring followers come to you in absolute reverence, for we understand that just as you can giveth fourth the sex hair, you can also taketh it away. Please, Dear Beanie, we beseech you to continue to grace the guilded locks of our beloved Rob with your glory and virtue. In turn we promise to always have faith in your ability to enrich our lives by delivering to us the most heavenly countenance (read jawporn) in the Beandom. Amen.

Holy day? Monday. Why Monday? Because, let's face it, Mondays suck smelly bawls and attending 10:15 Beaniemass can only be an improvement.

Our communion shall consist of:

Stoli shots
and

Unlike other religions, however, you need not attend mass or kneel at the altar to receive your sacraments. You're welcome to help yourself to as much as you want, as often as you feel it's necessary to pay homage to the Beanie.

We baptize our flock in fonts filled with Heiniken, not so much to cleanse sins as to bask in the glory of our deity's favorite lager.

And finally, we follow only one simple commandment, as enscribed on the back of an In & Out Burger napkin:

Rob's Beanie is the Alpha and the Omega and thou shalt not put other false hats before it.

All hail Beanie, full of grease grace, we thank you for your many blessings and pray that we continue to be one with the Beanie, which we enthusiastically embrace and love to the very depths of our souls.

UNGH.

Amen.

"Gateway Drug"

So I'm shopping the other day in "Metaphors 'R Us" and in typical Mama C fashion, the first place I head for is the clearance rack. I'm pawing through a bin of symbolism cast-offs when I come across an awesome one. "Twilight is Like Marijuana." You like? Good, because I bought it specifically to use for this blog entry. And damn, it was cheap...like 75% off.

Coincidentally, I ran into Steph Meyers there. She was trying to return the "Bella is Like Heroin" metaphor, but she didn't have her receipt. Pity. She's lookin' good though. Dropped a few pounds. She said to tell you all hello.

It occured to me while I was sorting through my list of recent DvD acquisitions, that Twilight really has been my "gateway drug". It's been harmless, really. Just a little, innocuous vice, like smokin' weed. I watch it once or twice a week and it relaxes me. Makes me all hooded-eyelids mellow & chilled out. Nothing wrong with that, I mean, nobody gets hurt, right?

Wrong.

Turn it over, and there is a dark, diseased underbelly to this seemingly harmless little habit. Initially just a recreational activity, Twilight has lead to some much more gripping addictions.

Sure, at first I rationalized that my need was under control. Yes, I have all of the books. I own the Twilight movie on Blu-Ray with a digital copy on my I-pod, and well....I talk about it on my YouTube Channel and then there's this blog. And my den. And my Cullen Car Collection. And my puppy I named Bella. And the wallpaper on my office PC. But that's it! That's all there is. It's not controlling my life or anything. I've got this.

Or so I thought.

Eventually, Twilight wasn't enough. I was constantly craving more. More of something. More of....him. Still, I couldn't admit it to myself. Instead, I went out in search of this:

I didn't have the capacity to understand it, and I didn't fucking care. I was literally trippin'. Straight up, hallucinogenic fantasies. Those lips curled around a cigarette...that perfect face in never-ending close-up shots, those ridiculously long fingers gripping bedsheets. Shit...I was on the Psychadelic Express train to Robtopia. But once I stepped off, I was confused as fuck. And not...not...satisfied.

Luckily, not soon after, came this:

Easy enough to get for a while...I mean, it was IN THEATERS. They wouldn't make it so legally available to me if it weren't safe, right? Until of course, it wasn't in theatres anymore. That's when I descended into the underground. I had to resort to a seedy torrent download to get my fix. I rationalized that since I had paid to see it 10 times on the straight & narrow, just a little tiny hit on my laptop meant nothing. I needed it to keep me focused. Sharp. On task.

Until this:

And with this....my soul spiraled down into the deep, dark, unsavory world of irreversible Robddiction. I hadn't expected to like this one as much as I did. But the temptation was irresistable and when I finally gave in, no one was more shocked than I was that I liked it. I liked it a whole lot. I mean...he man-snogs and touches himself for fuck's sake. I couldn't have stopped myself from repeated doses of that for all the lip-biting in Stewtopia.

By now, the dealers know me. My wallet and I are welcomed with open arms and wide smiles. "Why yes, Mama...we've got just what you need. In fact, there's a shipment of some exciting new stuff coming on March 12th."

Holy Mary, Mother of Rainbow Pretty Pharmaceuticals, it's a full on Rob Rave. Pass the blinky pacifiers and glowing necklaces baby, 'cause I am all over that shit like Calvin Klein's on Kellan's package.

Of course, eventually, even the X won't be enough. I'll need some hard stuff. Some rated "R" stuff. Some...the-boy-is-a-French-man-whore-and-fucks-a-woman-MY-AGE-on-a-chair stuff. The kinda stuff you just don't recover from without professional help. THIS, will be my rock Rob bottom.

Intervention time, you say?

I am telling you, I won't go.

EVER.

Because I really do have this under control.

I don't need help.

I don't want help.

Help me.