Top 2 Most Boring Toys of the 90s

Sweet jams, though.

2) Pretty boring


1) Really boring


Gotcha own workbench!

Dubious Discoveries from The Edge

Because that is where I live life, wholly and fully without caution. By flying through the "Danger Zone," one forms an unspoken and unwritten pact with El Diablo, and I have signed it with my very plasma.

Thus I found myself returning from a few merry libations with a fellow daredevil an evening or so ago, reentering a home that was still powerless from the night's frightening wind storm that was delivered to our doorstep, perhaps courtesy of that day's freaking meteor.

What does a man do in this day and age with no electricity? Most would curl up in positions fetal, suckling on their thumb in hopes of culling a bit of courage from its grooves. I, however (for I am brave), propped a lantern on the pillow beside my head and began reading Stan Lee and Jack Kirby's first issue of "The X-men" by its light.


Amidst the verbose superheroic exchanges therein, I began to recall what an amazing and wonderful creation a first issue is. Not specifically in this instance, but in all instances! What glamour, to reveal your characters to an unsuspecting audience, projecting their origins across The Great Expanse, naked and vulnerable. What sensation, to establish fictional vendettas and grudges that may last an eternity. What possibility, to decide which boastful blurb best beckons big bunches o' blushing buyers!

Imagine, if I may be so candid and bold, a world comprised solely of first issues! Does it frighten you, or does it make you dance wildly?

Mindbender of the Day

For some reason, the word "fingerboarding" came up, and reminded me of those little Tech Decks that a couple of us would buy back in high school. Naturally, I checked YouTube for a related video and came up with this.

The video itself isn't that much of a curiosity, but one of the comments really sent me into outer space!


Is this being posted from the MICRO ZONE!? Let's see what The Watcher thinks.

24 Hours in Monster World

Rad illustration by Daniel Krall
I know I had mentioned this article before, but now I can link it since it's recently been posted on the Otaku USA website, excerpted from its original home in the magazine proper. In it, I perhaps lose a bit of my mind as I spend a day cranking through the PS2 Monster World Collection. It's kind of like 24, but with fewer explosions and more full-frontal male nudity.

24 Hours in Monster World

I should note that the article, as it was originally printed, ended with an illustration by yours truly that I can't find at the moment, depicting an old cartoon prospector takin' a gander at my mummified corpse and captioned as follows:

"And to this very day, here he sits, forever etched into the Earth in his stoney tomb... forever playin' them dang TV games!"

Rambo Week: Afterthoughts II: The End

Note: Please play the track below as you read this entry:



I decided to take a day off to reflect on this manly week of everything Rambo, something I did whilst perched atop the highest tree in my backyard, tinkering and toying with a few loose grenade pins and a coin fortunate enough to have made it through three wars and one trip to The End of the World and back.

All said, Rambo Week was one of personal importance, and I hope that you all enjoyed it as well. It began as a humble attempt to chronicle one man's excitement for a movie event, one that ended up exceeding all possible expectations.

You see, we'll look back at Rambo IV—John Rambo or whatever you want to call it; maybe Just Rambo, like the poster says—as a landmark action movie that saw an aging filmmaker throwing down a hefty and well-worn gauntlet. Oddly enough, this gauntlet is so specific and so form-fitting that the next person to pick it up and accept the challenge may have to be Stallone himself.

When he does, we will be there. The Joseph Luster Report will chronicle his endeavor, just as my Countdown clock will now let you know when Neil Marshall's Doomsday is released. Just remember, we may have to walk a long road before experiencing something like Rambo Week again.

Rambo Week: Afterthoughts I

I want to go see Rambo again already. Since I probably won't do that for another day or two, I'm satisfying my urge by reading up on the film's production. This has probably been around for a bit, but here's a good article on just that.

You might want to wait until you see it before reading it, though! Same goes for Maitland McDonagh's review of the flick, which is short, to the point, and mentions Cannibal Holocaust, to which I drew a lot of parallels while watching Rambo (truly a modern shock-exploitation movie), as well.

Links courtesy of Joseph Shieh
StalloneZone image stolen by me!

Rambo Week: John Rambo

Turns out they do make 'em like they used to. Incredible, brutal action flick that flew forth through some sort of wild late-eighties wormhole into a world where, surely, there is no MPAA. And get this, it's not some ironic bullshit.

Movie theater was a men's club; like the sign says, no girls allowed.

Rambo Week: The Final Countdown

The original Rambo trilogy has, like a very fine wine, aged with grace while retaining a mammoth's powerful gait. I know this for a fact because I just marathoned all three. Like any good film series, each subsequent chapter ramps up the blood, explosions, and amount of helicopters; they don't make 'em like this anymore.

Or do they?

That's exactly what I'll find out in a hair under three hours, my friends (according to my handy Rambo countdown clock. I hope you have found it useful). I have a feeling that they do, indeed, still make them like they used to. At least Stallone might. I plan to bring along a comrade, but should that fail, I won't hesitate to roll into the midnight showing symbolically alone.

Rambo Week: Part Deux

I can't imagine what the world would be like now had First Blood parts one and two been produced and released as a single film. I don't think I want to know, because I probably wouldn't be able to sit here at the comfort of my desk making post after post about Rambo, of all things.

Rather, I'd be doing something much less exciting, since they would have stopped making movies after its release. After all, how would you follow up the greatest 3-hour action film of all time? For the record, the box below is my most vivid childhood memory of Rambo, thanks to countless video store trips that eventually, after Robocop busted my R-rated film cherry, reaped great rewards.

Gotta love that bumbling pull-quote

Rambo Week: It's a Long Road

Wow, it had been at least a decade since I last watched First Blood, the riveting account of John Rambo, drifting ex-soldier, shaken up in a small town by a cop that just wouldn't stop pushin'. It's never a wonder why it's one of my favorites.

For those of you whose curiosity has been piqued by my talk of receiving it on Blu-ray from Netflix, don't get too excited. You'd do just as well to watch it on regular DVD, as the transfer isn't really that special. Still, no matter which format you view it in, the final scene of the film is never any less astounding.

Naturally, YouTube, the low-res internet library of all video media, has rounded up these moments—moments which I'm sure many will concur are some of the best minutes Stallone has ever committed to the screen—in all their glory, up to and including Dan Hill's somber closing tune.

Rambo Week: BAM!

Taking a cue from John Rambo himself, Netflix decided not to send me a notification that my movie had shipped. From woes to WHOAS is how my facial expression transformed. As I stood with my back to the street, no doubt in the middle of oppressing someone, the mailman rose from behind, thrusting this into my mitts with the swiftness of a hot machete:

Rambo Week: Nutrition Information

Well, it looks like the Blu-ray of First Blood won't make it here from Netflix before Rambo hits theaters (have you been keeping your eye on the countdown?). That's too bad, I wanted to document a marathon for Rambo Week!

For your entertainment today, I've stolen this image of nutritional facts in preparation for the new flick. Please do not make it larger if you don't want to see something awesome!

Rambo Week: Certainly Nothing to Sneeze At

That is, to say, these exciting RAMBO action figures! I was discussing matters toy-related with one Mister Shieh the other day; marveling at the halcyon days when R-rated properties and the cartoons thereof were marketed to children. It was truly some wondrous, forgotten utopia!

Rambo Week: First Strike (Episode 1)

"Well, if it isn't my old friend Rambo"
"You don't have any friends!"

Serving the Public Interest

I'd like to direct you all to the left sidebar, where you will find a handy countdown timer to the theatrical release of RAMBO. Why mark your calendars when you can come to the JLR daily and find out how much closer you are to Stallone turning a bunch of foreign dudes into Ragu!?

And thus it begins: RAMBO WEEK!

My Future Pink Slip

This is why I would never make it as a comic artist.

I love to draw, but even if I got paid to do it I still think I'd be terrible at perspective and anatomy. Part of my problem might actually be that this era (early to mid-90s Marvel and early Image, specifically) had a huge impact on my middle school mind. Maybe that's why I'm borderline retarded, I don't know. What I do know is that I drew a lot of shitty superhero comics in 7th and 8th grade, some of which I'd love to scan and upload for everyone's amusement.

Now, I'll agree that Rob Liefeld is pretty awful behind the pencil; abysmal, even. That's not exactly a "bold" statement, is it? But this article, besides having a few funny pictures on it, is the perfect example of my least favorite style of Internet Writing. I like to call it Maddox Disease (and trust me, I fancy myself an expert on how unfunny Maddox is), and the very first sign of it is attention to detail in the most obnoxious of ways.

I don't want to get into it too much, though, because then I will become it!

Condemned 2: Mudbutt

This game's going to be ridiculous. In case you were wondering, I really liked the first one.

More updates coming soon, sorry for the slow-down lately. I guess I was just too mesmerized by D-Wars!

DYNOWARZ

Or Dragon Wars or whatever it's called (not to be confused with the tale of Spondylus' fall), delivers. It's like a twelve year-old's brain vomited all over the screen and the resulting mess was vomited back and forth between two other twelve year-old's in a middle school theater group's performance of Two Girls One Cup.

Face it, folks, no other film has so accurately depicted what it would be like if a bunch of dragons and lizards with cannons on their backs faced off against tanks and fighter jets. Not since I, myself, was the tender age of twelve have I vividly imagined a Composition notebook spilling onto the floor, its ink and pencil shavings tumbling from within the pages, forming physical dioramas of mildly retarded destruction.

Go, rent it, watch it in the highest of definitions and remember: Robert Forster is everywhere.

Dramatic reenactment

Galactic Ghetto Netflix Queue II

Tomorrow is D-day, as in D-WARS DAY!

Burly Beard Brigade

I'm aghast that I neglected to direct you fine folks toward the Burly Beard Brigade, a blog by sexy man Brandon Fincher and myself!

Go forth, my friends, and be bearded!

Have any hot beard leads? Shoot them over to Brandon: djinnocide [AT] gmail.com!

One Take Johnny

Here, my friends, is the latest Bigwig film, YouTubed for your convenience! Please feel free to give it anywhere from four to five stars.



One Take Johnny (YouTube)

On Victory in Men's Sporting Contests

This post is not about cartoons. It is not about video games and it is also not about tinker toys or junk food films. Allow me this brief deviation from the JLR norm as I boast the outcome of today's men's college basketball contest; one that pitted Louisville (this is the team you should love) against Kentucky (this is the team you should hate).

Each year, be it basketball or football (it is always both, of course), these two state-sharing rivals battle it out to decide which fans get to be bigger assholes to the other for the following year. This is fruitless, however, because Kentucky fans can never not be loafing roustabouts; it is a genetic trait sewn deep within their alcohol-thinned life fluids. Let me first establish why Louisville is better than Kentucky, regardless of their close vicinity to one another. I will explain this in terms that even the most sports-loathing of nerds will be able to understand.


The city of Louisville is a shining golden nugget in the state of Kentucky. It's as if King Midas sought to touch the whole state, but could only reach its northernmost region. The rest of the state, as sprawling as it may be, is essentially a desert of fools. Lexington, the University of Kentucky's home base, is like Mos Eisley in that— and I'm sure you could complete this sentence with little effort— it is a wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Kentucky fans hate Louisville fans because the latter walk upright. They uncovered the ancient "maths" and "books" of their forefathers and have taken to their studies like any good, advanced civilization would. This angers the Kentucky fans to the point of spoken slander and physical violence, both of which are usually hindered by the blinding amount of alcohol and/or meth in their systems.

To make a long story short, it's red lasers (Louisville) versus blue lasers (Kentucky). Though blue lasers are generally considered the "good guys," everyone knows that Cobra was much cooler than G.I. Joe.

In today's game, Louisville, under command of their coach Rick Pitino, emerged victorious with a final score of 89-75. This puts Kentucky's current season at a reeking 6-7. Residents of Kentucky are no doubt busy turning over tractors and driving their strange primordial auto-buggies around in circles, hoping the subsequent donuts and DUIs will be the salve to today's poisoned wound.


Oh, I also won a 25 dollar bet with my old man (who snapped the above photo). Beans to you but means to me!

JLHors d'œuvre

Enjoy my "final word" on Contra 4 over at the Otaku USA site.

His Majesty's Ice Fortress

Unless I'm taking special care to secure myself in the bunker below, my general writing area is one that faces a window directly looking out into my backyard. Obviously, greater forces are imploring that I stay confined to get all of my work done today, because the typically distracting wildlife television screen I face daily has been encrusted in a shell of pure crystallized ice. Here is the day's view from the eyes of Joseph Luster:


Will he ever escape his frigid tomb? Will his work day prove productive, or will he perish like an arctic mummy, hand forever frozen in the midst of typing his death throe pleas?

Find out!

Confessions of a Sixty Year-old Man

Much to the chagrin of potentially hilarious storytelling, I didn't spend my New Year's Eve boozin' through the ball drop. I didn't spend it doing the "mashed potato" or the "alligator" (though if such an opportunity had presented itself to me, I surely could not turn it down). I did not party, even though I can assure you my "momma wasn't home."

Rather, my lids dropped along with the ball, like a time-addled watchman living long enough to ensure that this young Planet Earth would make it through just one more year. Smiling, my body fizzled into stardust, and the blanket keeping it warm slowly sagged with nothing more to keep it alive and inflated. My dog began to chew on the remains, thinking them spoils.

I did get to see my very favourite episode of Twilight Zone before passing, though.

"Time Enough At Last," as I'm sure the majority of you are aware, stars a thickly bespectacled Burgess Meredith as a veritable Omega Man, not unlike Mister William Smith in the film I Am Legend (You will find such popular relevancies a common occurrence on this weblog). There are no monsters plaguing his loneliness, though, just more loneliness. What he finds in this rocked and rumbled world is, aside from a lack of company, endless supplies of food, comfortable couches to sleep on, and the promise of a full life that nobody would want to live.

Then he finds a gun. Thinking, like many of us would, that ending it all would be best, he puts it to his temple. His would-be final sight is that of a crumbled public library, a vision so shocking as to erase all thoughts of suicide. He runs to it! Books, books and more books: collected works of his most beloved authors, bound tomes of sublime poetry; enough material to, much like his food supplies, last a lifetime.

So he organizes them into monthly and yearly towers of knowledge, preparing to terrorize their faculties like a mental Godzilla. The best part? Just as the title proclaims, he has "time enough at last" to devour it all. Just as he begins to dive in with a grin that would take a lifetime to sour, his glasses fall to the concrete below! The lenses shatter on impact, leaving worthless decorative frames in their absence. "No, no. It-it isn't fair" he says. "It's just not fair!"

Most of the episode, for those of you that have never seen it, is comprised of Meredith walking a bomb-torn MGM set, reeling out his internal monologue aloud, just as I'd like to imagine anyone in this situation would. Even as I wake up in my room, no longer a watchful, elderly caretaker for this planet, I am reminded of why these are probably the stories that influence me the most. You can even see their ghoulish control over something as brief as a Slamm Dunk cover.

That's all folks, Happy New Year. No related YouTube links or scintillating images here, because it's 2008 and you've time at last to indulge fully in The Joseph Luster Report!