The Subterraneans: RATS: NIGHT OF TERROR, SWITCHBLADE SISTERS, THE BOOGENS

As bipolar March melts and freezes and jumps 30 degrees almost every day here in NYC, SADD drags me around like Angel tied to the back of Mapache's automóvil. My mother died last month, so who am I trying to shock with all my crazy gonzo rambling now? What's my character motivation now that my main audience back startled by my transgressive utterances is beyond my reach? I've been writing about the lysergic properties of The Green Pastures all week, but with all the instant crucifying going on in the blogosphere I'm worried my post is racist instead of merely clever. If the weather wasn't so unendurable I might hazard a guess, but the barometric pressure makes clarity impossible. Luckily, a see-saw bows one's way at least half the time, so in a bit I'll be back to chillin,' banging out some entries in the drive-in triple feature canon. Now more than ever, good recycled trash just might be the only haven from the demons at our doorstep, and so I turn to Joanne Nail to fuck the shit up on my behalf, for my God is one of wrath and vengeance and he's tired of bureaucrats and bourgeois liberal tenure-trackers bearin' false witness. Hear these words long written down: Swing See-Saw Swing! the Jezebels will be back! 

RATS: NIGHT OF TERROR

(1984) Dir: Bruno Mattei 

**1/2

Time and again El Rey has delivered the great trashy 1970s-80s Italian goods, stuff I'd never know about or normally just avoid based on the title but am more than willing to have on in the background via cable TV. Rats: Night of Terror (1984) for example, is a title I've seen over the years but always drew a vaguely irritated shrug, conjuring in my mind yet another  Willard or Food of the Gods, or Rats, as in the Frank Herbert horror novel about giant rats. Which I loved in high school (turned onto it by reading Stephen King's Danse Macabre in the school library) -- but the movie sucked.

I was wrong to dismiss it, wrong like sticky traps instead of the humane quick snap; El Rey and Mattei were right. We must set, bait and camouflage our snap traps or be overrun, and lose dominance of the planet.

What sets Mattei's brand of vermin above the dregs is that it's more post-apocalyptic than 'big bug'-based. Based on the title one expects a 'wild man flame-thrower wielding exterminator is the only one who can save NYC from a trash strike rat infestation" plot, rife with dead hobos bobbing up in the sewers and a woman screaming in her shower), but a post-apocalyptic gang war style part of Italy's welcome wave of Escape from New York, The Warriors, The Road Warrior-imitations that dotted grindhouse and drive-ins and video shelves of the early-80s? Count me in. Like all of Rome's wily thieves, Mattei only steals the good stuff, and even then only from the best! SNAP.

I still would have run the other way seeing this on some 80s pan and scan cable channel, but El Rey and HD have brought new life to it: the restored deep blacks and deep rich grime shades help me get over the general displeasure seeing masses of rats congregated in a room with no clear motive or cheese incentive. In fact these poor rats all seem rather bewildered, tired, and scared. with good reason. Lukily director Bruno Mattei made sure no rats were harmed during filming. Oh wait, this is Italy, so yeah they were probably incinerated. But in a hellscape like this, the dead are the lucky ones. And at least we don't see them look all betrayed and startled as they're shot with a Bert I. Gordon pink pellet in slow motion like we do in Food of the Gods. I saw one running on fire, but in general they're mere extras; we don't see them much and the close-up they figure in (for real as opposed to cat toy stand-ins of long shots), are looped while the actors try to turn running up the basement steps in single file into a whole scene. Watch out for that loop of red-eyed rat close-up zoom shot! Hey, the human cast does try hard and the editor tries to make it all fit together and I suppose it might pass for a movie if you were half asleep in a dark drive-in, or on your couch years later catching it on cable like a certain someone. 

The non-tsy action follows a post-Road Warrior style biker gang with tricked out vehicles that must have been left over from the 1983 Enzo Castellari film I nuovi barbari (The New Barbarians AKA Exterminators AKA Warriors of the Wasteland) which were from his classic 1990: The Bronx Warriors (1982) and its sequels. In fact, in Germany, Rats: Night of Terror was billed as the Rifts III - Die Ratten von Manhatten i.e. billed as third in the Bronx Warriors trilogy--hey, there were others still to come, and hey, they borrow from the best, including themselves. Map of the bridge! Hey! Hey! Hey! 

So these Bronx "Rifts" pull into a deserted (bombed out in WW2 and never restored?) Italian (not supposed to be?) villa (Manhattan it ain't) and soon are besieged by shots of molti ratti --never funnier than when being pulled en masse via an 'unseen' carpet underneath their feet, towards our "terrified" antiheroes and their molls on the other end of the dusty, empty room. Keeping up the sci-fi end, there's a secret chamber with futuristic radio equipment and an opening scrawl that delivers a whole series of post-apocalyptic upsets. You know: evolution amok, up and under. None of it matters or makes sense except as setup for a 'gotcha' ending, which-- if we're 14 years old--we'll come out of nowhere. And we can alwyas laugh at the 'suggestions of rat' tongue puppet and great exploding bodies where all the rats come tumbling out of the belly and orifices like an out-of-hand Rod Stewart/Richard Gere rat orgy.

But what makes it work (for the fans) is the terrible dubbing and game if amateur acting/directing, centering around the dubious wisdom of gang leaders Kurt and the competitor for his alpha position, the Native American GI-esque Duke. Duke's right, after all, Kurt basically makes all the wrong moves, he must have got the job for being prettiest, and says lame shit like "Open up in the name of humanity!!" after blindly trusting Duke to guard the women in the other room and then unlock the door to let him in after he leaves to turn walking down a small flight of basement steps into a whole scene (lots of walking in place and reacting to rats that were presumably going to be overlaid). 

The diving bell and ominous jet landing synth pads and little rat skittering drum loops of the Luigi Ceccarelli score is perfect if not great and the film looks foxy and retro-chic so don't miss it. For those of us who saw the Escape-Road-Warriors trifecta over and over and over as young teenagers, it's enough that this film tries hard to look like them, though caked with the usual gray dust and has explosions and mounted machine guns. 

Could-a done without the rats, though. Twist!

SWITCHBLADE SISTERS

(1975) Dir. Jack Hill
****

"The only thing a man's got below his belt is clay feet."

If you love to see men the target of feminine violence, then for you, almost always, lurks Jack Hill, the auteur behind SPIDER BABY, COFFY, THE BIG DOLL HOUSE, but almost more importantly, SWITCHBLADE SISTERS. A preconfiguration of what was to become a street gangs/amok youth craze that fused the urban grime apocalypse of 70s street gang violence--ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (1976), THE WARRIORS (1978), SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER (1977), ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK (1981)--and do-wop post-HAPPY DAYS greaser nostalgia--THE WANDERERS (1979), THE LORDS OF FLATBUSH (1974), HE GOOD LOOKIN' (1982), GREASE (1978) . SWITCHBLADE SISTERS (1973) predates it all, looking back only to juvenile delinquent movies of Corman and Mamie Van Doren pics of the 50s. The cast includes Lenny Bruce's daughter Kitty as Donut (lower right), the gang member who gets picked on regularly by doll-faced, sweet voiced but tough-as-nails Lace (Robbie Lee). No one fucks with new girl in town Maggie (Joanne Nail) though, cuz she's not averse to whipping off her chain belt and/or grabbing a switchblade (they all use their jackets as a kind whip/shield, a good whip to whack a knife out of someone's hand). Lace isn't threatened by such moxy but Lace's one-eyed suck-up Patch (Monica Gale) sees the writing on the wall: Maggie's gonna steal Patch's man, the goomba Alpha of their male counterparts, Dominic (Ashner Brauner); Lace just thinks Patch is jealous of the beta female position but ole Patch is right; the sparks between Dom and Maggie are real enough, even his breaking into her room to rape her can't change that. In short, this is Jacobean tragedy of the most Shakespearean order, with a roller rink subbing for the town square, and an enemy family in the form of a Crabs and his drug dealing bunch of smartasses posing as a local political group who run up against Dom's operation. But eventually the men are thrown over.

So why did it fail? The film's original title THE JEZEBELS possibly made drive-in audiences think it was that hoary old Bette Davis southern romance (so it bombed). By the time the distributors changed the title, word had gotten around that JEZEBELS was the film to see, but now they couldn't find it. D'oh!! If it had been called KNIVES OF THE JEZEBELS or better yet, I'LL SLIT YOUR FUCKING THROAT, it would be talked about to this day. Hill's previous great feminist-with-a-knife film, SPIDER BABY (1968), had the bad luck to be come out at a time when drive-ins didn't want black and white movies anymore, unless maybe they had graphic cannibalism. SWITCHBLADE SISTERS was a great title either, making it seem like some ditzy Andy Sidaris softcore lesbo thing. SPIDER BABY just sounds vaguely cheesy or boring, too; it should have been called THE SPIDER GIRL GAME or better yet, I'LL SLASH YOU TO FUCKING RIBBONS!

Anyway, you can guess the story, SISTERS is great when you're really pissed off, like I am right now. It goes all the way, from sleazy initiations, cigarette burning, a rape/abduction by a rival gang triggering massive retaliation, vicious bite blow-jobs, a constant flux of acting ability, butch prison guards, roller rink massacres, and keeps going long after other films pull back. There is a feminist black militant ghetto uprising with machine guns and a badass armored Cadillac, a shocking Cagney-by-way-of Lorre raving mad closing monologue (maybe my favorite ending in all schlock cinema), an OTHELLO-style jealous mind poisoning, the Daryl Hannah-prefiguring eye patch of Patch, the heavenly blonde jawline of Janice Karman (she barely speaks here but would go voiceover work as part of the THE CHIPMUNKS), the badass 70s funk score by Medusa (their one screen credit), the way Ashner Brauner sounds like Ralph Meeker when he's really mad; Hill gives us all that and more, and Quentin Tarantino brings us to the Hill by way of his Miramax "Band Apart" label, looking damn good by way of Netflix Streaming. Forever.

Maybe I'm really pissed off right now, and taking it out on the infinitely carvable idiots in my mind who've kept my office working until four while a blizzard's been raging outside since noon. So I protested by sulking in my office, blasting this movie on Netflix like a badass, then tripping on my snow boot shoelaces like a four alarm ponce. Even so, SWITCHBLADE SISTERS is the shit. See it when you're in the mood to stomp on someone, it will 'flatten out your sine curves.' That it's on Netflix in HD with gorgeous colors is one of cinema's current great gifts. See it when you're super furious at the world (did I just say that?) or just strung out with the shakes because your dealer never showed, and bask in the cathartic powers of the fabulous Joanne Nail, the way Robbie Lee's eyes widen and dilate, then contract into a glowing glaze. And Joanne Nail's final rant to the fat cop, her face streaked with blood, eyes wide and maniacal, delivers just the right amount of Meyer-esque camp to her lines.  Joanne Nail would be back all right... in the fascinating 70s all-purpose drive-in capstone, THE VISITOR! (1979)

THE BOOGENS
(1981) Dir James L. Conway
 ***

Am I crazy to have had to get this on Blu-ray? I had to see what was going on better as all early videos were notoriously too dark. Not that I saw any. I read all the reviews and chat rooms about such things and was turned off by the title: "Boogens" is like what some gross kid sitting across from me in 7th grade lunch might call the peas he stuck up his nose. These Boogens showed up during the height of the slasher boom and seemed part and parcel with all the bland baghead movies coming out like blood from America's open veins, sending my alienated 14 year-old feminist arms all akimbo in indignant horror. Well, maybe it just needed 30 years for both of us to get clear of that goddamned early 80s nonsense, because now I think the BOOGENS is fucking great. Okay, it's just 'good'. Okay... good enough. You can take the peas out of your nose now, Eugene. I'm here to stay. Hmm, maybe put them back in, Eugene. I'm too mature to handle it after all. BOOGENS sucks.

What really sets it apart from the pack right off is an early 20s Canadian-style maturity (the film company is situated in Salt Lake, so--you know): the snowy Utah mountain environment (the outfit making and releasing the film was big on nature movies like GRIZZLY ADAMS) creates a sense of believable daylight savings eeriness and the way the two young male characters (Fred McCaren, Jeff Harlan), both fresh out of engineering school, tackle the job re-opening an old silver mine while preparing to spend the weekend with two young women (Rebecca Balding, Anne-Marie Martin). One is the girlfriend, the other a final girl type just there to ski and maybe let herself be set up with the single friend--not in a skeevy way, but in the real way you can imagine you and your friend arranging a similar thing--neither sappy love at first sight strings nor revulsion and clashing, but real 'arranged' hook-up between young adults of legal age kind of vibe, you know, like you find anywhere but the US? Unlike most horror scripts, the dialogue between the boys and girls feels written between two people with differing views rather than one hack writing everyone the same. The dichotomy works really well because we're so used to the extreme polarities of geeky virgin nerds and hunky alpha bland lotharios, sluts and final girl virgins, with nothing in between. The 'in-between' is on full display in The Boogens, making us realize how underrepresented this type usually is. Boogens asks: What about the singleguys and girls old enough to not be virgins but young enough they're still a little insecure when real emotion intrudes on the mechanics of a one-weekend stand, but mature enough to not let fooling around affect their self esteem one way or the other? Sure the 'sex talk' coming out of the girls' mouths in their dialogue together in the car and before the boys arrive feels like it's written by a dude. What it really needed was to let the actors improvise and find their own rhythm, because the actors aren't up to making mediocrely-written small talk seem spontaneous. A Debra Hill or a Gale Hurd, or Polly Platt, or a Daria Nicolodi on the team could have really helped. 

Despite the occasional script issue, the characters are at least professional at their jobs, and the scenery is beautiful. The mountains, the mines, and the monsters have an ingenious connection to the land and to all the homes in the neighborhood (via ancient tunnels connecting to air vents) and in their cool blobby way they recall the crawling things in Hammer's Island of Terror (1966). As is so important, the film takes its time not showing the beasts too early, which is how it should be, and each scene stretches out, confident in its moment-by-moment accumulation of unease, like when one of the girls is chased around the cabin fresh out of the shower (we neither see the monster nor gawk at the nudity); and there' an explosive ending and some good (presumably real) cavern scenes, which we can see and appreciate now that it's no longer on a dark smudgy cropped VHS screen. 

Blu-ray --is there nothing it can't do?

Manhattan Sinking Like a Rock

Surrounded by real-life gang violence during its original release, the 1979 Walter Hill film, THE WARRIORS is probably not the NYC film classic that will be shown anytime soon at the Bryant Park Outdoor Summerfest, and maybe that's why the film is still so vital and relevant, more so--now, at least-- even than the city that spawned it. 

What? How dare I, you ask? Consider that the title above is a line from Lou Reed's last great album, New York, which examined the garbage dump that was New York City at the dawn of the 1990s. For me, graduating school in 1989, moving to Seattle before finally landing on Manhattan's East Side, it was a talisman. An album of anthems about drugs and bitterness and hopelessly high rents, it made NYC cool even if "They wrote a book about / said it was like ancient Rome."

But in Rome they had a coliseum, right? Gladiators, lions, Christians, all that shit to the death, gluttony and orgies. But what kind of movies are shown at the current New York Bryant Park Summerfest? You know, ROMAN HOLIDAY, BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S. Nothing to rile up the kids with.

Let me hip you to how it was in those days when outdoor summer fests in Bryant Park would have been a nightmare of crime, drugs, and rioting, since this week begins in full the dawn of the mayor's campaign to not even let us smoke cigarettes outside.

Back in 1991-1993 or so, you could still drink on the street with impunity, so long as it was in a paper bag. You could smoke pot all over the street and the street cops wouldn't bat an eye. You could blast music from your trunk and drink beers in class, and 'bridge and tunnel' didn't mean kids coming in to hang out around the multiplex on Union Square and check in with each other via constant texting, it meant coming in to get hammered. Everything below 14th Street became a block party, everything up to 49th Street, a yuppie drunk-a-thon. The Times Square area was still awash in 70s sleaze. If I walked to 1st Avenue down 50th Street to rent (non-X) videos I'd be--depending on if I was wearing jean shorts or not--solicited by various well-dressed dudes in the bushes. And of course, everyone smoked cigarettes ($2 a pack) everywhere (no age limit to smoke - cigarette machines), and danced without cabaret licenses... life was a ball.

All....gone...like tears... washed in rain.

Recently I moved out of my old 12th St. walk-up and into Brooklyn and I miss Manhattan, but even Manhattan's not Manhattan anymore. You can't do any of the stuff I just mentioned and Times Square.... it's a nightmare of WB flagships. 'Children come first' so all traces of vice must be swept away. In the 1970s when I used to drive in with my parents and grandmother to see plays on Broadway, if I'd have imagined that one day all the filth would be cleaned up so as not to traumatize my little head, I'd have--even then--been pissed off, and maybe even pissed in the street to protest. Well, maybe I would have been glad to see it go. I can't remember. But it made life dangerous and interesting. Why go to the city at all if not to see something you can't see in your own home town? Let it scare you into appreciating the simple safety of the small town!

Times Square was a real life horror movie, and we loved horror. Times Square on New Years a magnificent party.

Times Square on New Years is now a family-friendly, drug and alcohol-free zone of 'fun' and standing in the cold for upwards of six hours at a crack, for no discernible reason except to be 'part' of it, to say you were 'there.'

The origin of the ball drop celebration stems from the days when everyone drank, danced, and smoked on the street so it made a lot more sense to be outside in the cold. Imagine Dodge City, a dangerous lawless zone of sin, word gets out how authentic and cool it is, so families start coming to visit, so the new laws forbid guns, drinking, gambling, smoking, prostitution, and anything else that might alarm the provincial visitors and their kids, who bring money galore. Naturally the cowboys leave, so Dodge becomes an empty tourist trap where families can come and pay $10 to look at the chair Wyatt Earp once sat in, while paying $8 for a warm mug of warm sarsaparilla. Then of course they hire actors to play cowboys, shooting cap guns at each other in the street. Even the horses snort at it all. That's New York City under our loathsome twins of anti-evil, Giuliani and Bloomberg.



I remember when THE WARRIORS (1979) was released and the newspaper ran big scary ads with the poster at left, and gang violence was rumored to erupting at screenings. The suburbs were scared!

Here's a description of the violence from People magazine in 1979:

Critical response to The Warriors, a new $4 million movie about New York City street gangs, has ranged from mild disdain to modest praise. Audience reaction, on the other hand, has been far less restrained: Within a week of its release, three youngsters were dead and numerous incidents of violence had apparently been triggered by the film.

"If someone comes to a movie with a gun, who's at fault?" asks Warriors' film editor David Holden. Someone did just that at a drive-in showing on the night of February 12 in Palm Springs, Calif. and killed a teenager. Some 165 miles away, on the same night, an 18-year-old bled to death in a darkened theater in Oxnard, Calif. after being knifed by an unruly gang. And three nights later a Boston high school student was murdered outside a subway station, allegedly by two young men who had just come from the film.

Paramount Pictures, the movie's distributor, has scrapped its lurid advertising campaign (above) and offered to pay for extra security at any of the 670 theaters where The Warriors opened four weeks ago. Yet a mere handful of moviehouses have accepted Paramount's offer, and only about a dozen (including the two in California where the killings took place) have canceled the film. The reason is obvious: The Warriors grossed more than $10 million in its first two weeks.... People connected with The Warriors professed surprise. Co-screenwriter David Shaber says it is "like Sesame Street compared to a film by Sam Peckinpah." Paramount VP Gordon Weaver observes that the violence is "the sort of thing that happens at rock concerts, high school basketball games and any place where diverse groups meet. It could have happened anywhere."

Here is a report on three places where it did:

Admission was only $1 at the Esplanade triplex in Oxnard, Calif. the night Tim Gitchel, his brother and two friends drove 10 miles from Ventura to catch the 10:10 showing. Just as The Warriors came on, the four youths suddenly found themselves battling at least 15 blacks who were suspected of drinking and smoking grass during the previous show. The fracas spilled into a walkway while Ed Treiberg, a patron who has worked with juveniles, looked on in horror. "They were caught up in a battle fever," says Treiberg of the assailants. "They just had the look of crazy in their eyes." Two of young Gitchel's companions were stabbed and Tim died from a knife wound to the heart. An 18-year-old construction worker, he was ambitious and hard-working and planned to attend college to study law. "Tim didn't hate anybody," recalls his mother. "He loved life." His family plans to file a civil suit against Paramount and the theater complex.

Four hours before Gitchel died, Marvin Kenneth Eller and several friends drove into the Palm Springs Drive-In to see The Warriors. At the movie, 19-year-old Kenny argued with a youth who blocked the way to the bathroom. Garbage cans flew; several shots were fired from a small-caliber handgun. A bullet went through Eller's skull, and after four days on the critical list he died. The unmarried father of a one-year-old son, Kenny worked for his father as a roofer.

Martin Yakubowicz, 16, a high school sophomore, left his $2.90-an-hour job in Back Bay Boston—putting bindings on skis—half an hour early that Thursday so he could be home in Dorchester in time to bring his mother a surprise gift. He boarded the subway near Symphony Hall and changed trains at a transfer point, where he encountered six youths—two of whom were friends—who had just seen The Warriors. They left the subway together, and, as Marty headed for a bus, a fight broke out and he was fatally stabbed.

The Warriors is still going strong at Boston's Saxon Theatre, which, says the assistant manager, "hasn't done such good business since My Fair Lady."(3/12/79)

In 1981, John Carpenter's ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK was released and though the film hods up extremely well today, it paled at the time in comparison to THE WARRIORS, which has defied all odds to become one of the best action films of the 1970s.

My mom rented both films for us one Halloween in 1981 when I was around 12 or so and living in Central NJ suburbs. It's hard to believe now, but my friends and I were scared to watch them! Can you dig? Being 15 and scared to watch films like THE WARRIORS and ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK? But that's what life pre-cable did to you. It was hard to see stuff with gore and nudity so you grew up kind of intimidated by it.

We saw THE WARRIORS again and again after that, but if you told me I'd ever move to NYC or Brooklyn I would have laughed in disbelief while quietly pissing my pants. This was the place that SNL was introducing as "the murder capital of the world." This was where Sliwa's Guardian Angels protected innocent locals from murderous psychos and muggers; where garbage strikes and unregulated health codes led to a stench unimaginable; drugs, prostitutes, X-rated book stores, drunken drag queens and raincoat-wearing perverts the norm; cinemas were crumbling edifices with grisly triple bills of films often shot in the same neighborhood, carrying their violence outside into cartoonish arias of serial murder, brutal rape and cathartic, insane revenge. It was a place where humanity's basest instincts dissolved into oily messes of profit and pain, and the films from there carried a queasy cachet.

Who would ever want to move there? One went by train for a Saturday afternoon, to drink underage, score some oregano, see a rock show at the Ritz, go into grindhouses on a dare, well-armed with a buzz and friends, and then when the novelty and drinks wore off one got back on the train,  fast. That was New York in the 70s-early 80s, its sleazy magnetism well-captured in dozens of films from TAXI DRIVER to EYES OF LAURA MARS, but none of them quite appealed to us younger teens, not like THE WARRIORS.

We tried to love ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK (1981) as much but there's something about it never quite clicks. All the ingredients are there, it trades on New York City's mystique at the time of being a dangerous place overrun by crime and strutting gang youths, like a grim sequel, imagining Cyrus didn't die and gangs took over. Like THE WARRIORS its grim facade portends much traumatic violence and grit, makes it seem like you would be taking your life in your hands even to dare to go see it, then says ah I was only kidding, grab a brew. I revere Carpenter's films for that brew, but ESCAPE never quite takes off.  It gets hung up on details, locations, the technicalities of landing a glider on top of the World Trade Center. It loses the NYC dread factor.

 It does however only get better with repeat viewings. It's the perfect post-WARRIORS film, when the expectations are down and the buzz is coming on fast. They're the ideal double feature to take a break from all the bare life nanny state supervision this fun summer, and to remember a time when Manhattan was so grungy it was almost condemned and turned into a maximum security prison run by Lee Van Cleef. As Snake Plissken put it to Harry Dean Stanton, "Keys! Map of the bridge! Hey! Hey! Hey!"

 

And remember, when you're at that outdoor screening of BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S this summer, you may be having fun and earning points with your rom-com other but you're a disgrace to your uniform; warum schläfst du? Put down that book and start a gang. Spike that Snapple with a slug of bourbon! Smoke cigars and blow the smoke in the face of a child in a stroller! All tends towards chaos and this little sneeze of righteous nanny-state micromanaging we're mired in too shall pass... just as the ex-meek have inherited the earth, so too will the noveu-meek re-inherit, and the summer will be electric... and the city shall be sleazy.... and crime-ridden once more. Til then, boppers, I guess all we can do is play you a song.

(PS - I put that Joe Walsh song ending to the film on here - but youtube took it down - frickin' Bloomberg, man)