In Defense Of Van Damme...

World, you can keep your Seagals, your Lundgrens, your Chans and Li's. When I want my dose of martial arts mayhem, I turn to the JCVD. He's the best there is. When was the last time you saw Jackie Chan jump off a motorcyle, turn into a giant stuntman, flip over a van, change back, land on two feet and blow up a speeding van like Van Damme did in "Hard Target?"



Didn't think so.

When was the last time Steven Seagal threw on the tightest blue spandex pants in existence, gave us a look at a hot, yogagasming chick and then busted a splits so wide my groin had night terrors for weeks like Van Damme does here?



Never happened.

And when was the last time Dolph Lundgren had to die in Vietnam, get reanimated 20 years later and turn into a UniSol, only to find out his former partner played by Dolph Lundgren is going crazy, then has to cool down constantly like Van Damme cooled down in "Universal Soldier?"



Have I made my point yet?

The point is, Jean-Claude Van Damme is the ass kickingest of ass kickers. The face punchingest of face punchers. The splittiest of splitters. Plus, dude played himself and his twin brother separated at birth and raised thousands of miles apart from one another and they still have their native Brussels accent despite the fact that their parents were British. ACTING!



Like to see you fight yourself Jet Li!

Any martial artist with a little flexibility or a ponytail can make a movie. But only Jean-Claude can rock an actual performance like he did in "JCVD." Seriously, it's amazing when he flexes his Acting Muscles From Brussels. Check it.



Suck it Stalloneneggerlichanleeyunfatlundseagalnelsonreilly. Suck it.

A Brief, Apocryphal History Of Elgin, IL...

Even though I now reside in the massive metropolis known as Schaumburg, I was born and raised in the quaint, Mexican-food enriched town known as Elgin. A scant 30-164 minute drive to Chicago, it is a bastion of cheap bars, cheap parks and a riverboat casino that doesn't move.

Classy.

Elgin is also home to Elgin Mental Health Facility. These days, the old asylum doesn't pack them in like they used to. Back in the day, however, they were jumping like 1950's sock hop. Mind you, a 1950's sock-hop all drugged up and electro-shocked, but still.

The end of Elgin Mental Health's halcyon days came in the late 1980's, when overcrowding and a dwindling city budget meant cutbacks had to be made. The powers that be held a meeting, and a decision was made. It was agreed that the most logical, safe and cost preventitive solution...was to let some of the psychos go.

How do you do that? How do you just let a bunch of looney's loose? Do you treat them like baseball cards?

DOCTOR: Well, both these guys think they're Kennedy...but that one stabs people. Kennedy 1, you're free to go!

KENNEDY 1: (happily) Ich bin ein Berliner!

DOCTOR: Sorry Kennedy 2.

KENNEDY 2: (stabbily) Ich bin ein Berliner...

My grandmother was a nurse at this facility. And, as read in a previous post, spent a large sum of my childhood watching me. This meant, that whenever we went out for cheese fries, or a walk, or to a bank, we would inevitably encounter one of her former patients. My grandmother, sweet as she was, felt it was in my best interest, as a small, lightweight child, to introduce me to these hulking insanities.

I knew them all. Bruce was my favorite. Truly one of the more talented of the quixotic hoboes, he was capable of walking his imaginary dog AND play air guitar at the same time. Crazy? Most certainly. Skilled? Damn straight. I'd like to see any one of you walk your imaginary Irish Setter AND bust out the solo from "Carry On My Wayward Sun." It's hard. I know. I tried.

There is your Brief, Apocryphal History Of Elgin, IL. Stay tuned for my Passionate Defense Of Jean-Claude Van Damme coming in the next few days.

A Little Clippage For The Masses...

Sunday evening I had the pleasure of participating in a slick ass little short film for a contest held by Metromix in Chicago. Let me be fair in saying that I had little to do with the conception, birthing or raising of this video. I was merely allowed to improvise with a supremely talented cast and crew. Anyhoo, enjoy this little slice of fun that I just happen to be in.



Video Produced & Edited by: Matt Peace

Camera: Nathan Gregory, Drew Annen

Starring: Alex Peters, Mark Rosenthal, Zo Zosak

Memories Of Grandma...

I am not a sentimental person when it comes to the past. My memories are hazy because many of them I chose to forget. Also, I smoked a lot of weed back in the day, so take that brain cells. I do, however, remember my grandma. She spent a considerable amount of time watching after me in my youth. I remember many moments of our time together that might be worthy of a share. This is one of them.

My grandmother was deathly afraid of vermin. Mice, rats, voles, marmots, gophers, gerbils, hamsters, ferrets...did I mention marmots? HATED VERMIN! She hated these pests with a passion not seen since Roman Polanski's passion for the art of filmmaking...and 13-year old girls. My favorite movie at the time of this story was "Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade," a film which features thousands of rats running, squealing, dodging and ducking though a flaming tomb. Perfect for my 7-year old self.

Of course, every time I watched this movie on her new fangled VCR, I was forced to fast forward through these crucial-to-the-plot 15 minutes or so. One day, feeling especially mischevious, I decided that I wanted to test my grandmother's hatred. So, in the midst of fast forwarding through the scene, I had her open her eyes prematurely. I hit the play button and unleashed a torrent of rat-ish hell upon my grandmother. It seems awful to say it now, but at the time...it was just as awful.
My grandmother's shrieks drowned out those of the rats. No small feat due to my childhood propensity for incredibly loud volume and close TV proximity.

Now, my grandmother was not a small person. In fact, she was quite rotund. I hate to say it like that, because it makes me seem callous, but I loved her despite her size and, let's face it, typical grandma smell. And I only point out her weight to make this next point truly hit home.

Her leap toward the VCR defied all physics. No one that big has ever, or will ever, move that quickly. Indeed, if I were to research geological/geothermal records for that day, it would not surpise me if, on the other side of the planet, my grandmother's act of superhuman athleticism, had started a tsunami or other wind related natural disaster. Her agility had no doubt broken the world. Before I could even laugh at what I thought was the most hilarious prank ever (it wasn't), she had ejected from the couch, flew around her coffee table, skipped over my head and ejected the movie from the VCR in a performance so grand, it would stick with me to this very day (it did).

I was in trouble. No doubt about it. And I knew what my punishment was. My predestined fate alone should have been tonic enough to stop me. Unfortunately, I was, as they say in the scientific community, a total dumbass. I was off to meet my maker. Off to one of the most feared places of my childhood.

My grandma's bedroom.

So onward I trudged, up the dark stairs, and into her room. Shivers ran down not just my spine, but my entire body. I was surrounded on all fronts by the creepiest collection of porcelain dolls, fur-derived clothing and, perhaps most frightening of all...Animal.

From "The Muppet Show."

I loved "The Muppet Show." Still do. And Animal is one of my favorites. But when you are 7 years old, surrounded by creepy dolls and an armadillo purse (not a joke) and the light switch is too high to reach? The drummer for Dr. Teeth and The Electic Mayhem is creepy as shit.

I learned my lesson that day, and oh, what a lesson it was: never, EVER, make your vermin-loathing grandmother face these tiny beasts against her will, or you will be forced to hide from Animal.

From the fucking "Muppet Show."

Wake Up, Time To Die...

Last night, November 4th, I celebrated a milestone normally reserved for only the most intense of geeks.

I watched "Blade Runner" for the ONE MILLIONTH TIME! Yes, it's true. Now tell me what I've won!

Mark Rosenthal, for reaching the previously thought unimaginable milestone, you will receive a luxurious dinner for two catered by Popeye's Louisana Kitchen! Popeye's...it's bona-fide! But that's not all! You'll also get an AMC gift card for $25, perfect for seeing "The 4th Kind," now in theatres! Finally, a copy of our home game so you can enjoy the festivities of watching "Blade Runner" 1,000,000 times over and over again!

The "Blade Runner Watched For The One Millionth Time Fun-strava-bra-ganza" was brought to you by the CHUM Group, with considerations from Viewers Like You. This was a Mark Goodson Television Production.

Sit, Ubu, sit.

Also, 'twas my birthday. 27 years I've wandered the earth, and for 27 years, all I've done is watch "Blade Runner." Also, eat Popeye's.

Schaumburg INK, Coming Soon To TLC...

My post this evening was inspired by a beautifully written piece over on Doing It In Heels, a blog run by my wife. Here is the linkage:

http://www.doingitinheels.blogspot.com/

Anyhoo, this got me thinking about my own inky aspirations. Like my wife, I fully intend to express my love for my future children with a bit of tattoo-age. I feel doing so would be a spectacular daily reminder of how much I love these future children, even if they brought back some crazy plague with them from the future.

As the wife and I have decided on two children of the future, I want to rock a tat that will inspire both adoration and fear in these kids. My plan? I will tatoo my children's names on the back of my right shoulder, in order of oldest to youngest. Then, above them, I will tattoo a third name, and cross it out. That way, whenever those silver jumpsuit-wearing bastards of the future get out of line, I can lift up my shirt and point.

"Is this what you want? To end up like Jeffrey? Is it? Is it!?"

That ought to shut up the little SOB's.

By the way, I have no intention of adopting children from the future. I cannot and will not abide by toddlers who know how "Lost" ends before me.

A Completely Fictionalized Account Of My Most Recent Trip To The Zoo...

I stepped off the bus in front of Lincoln Park Zoo and took a deep breath. Mmm. Nothing quite like the mix of salty sea air and animal feces to start your day. Mind you, it was a welcome reprieve from some of the pungent people I smelled on the bus. My olfactory senses already had a full day's helping of competing perfumes and at least three distinctly different B.O. sub-classes. No matter. This trip wasn't about the scent of hobo arm pits. No, my intentions were slightly more noble: I was here to relax, and by relax, I mean wander aimlessly in the sweltering heat of Chicago in July to look at a large collection of increasingly sad animals...and perhaps have a big pretzel.

My first stop was the Ape House. Inside, I was greeted by loud, squealing children and even louder, shrieking parents, subtly extolling the virtues of, quote," shutting the fuck up in the goddamn monkey place." Unquote. Why were these wee humans wreaking such havoc? Well, as always, one of the monkeys was putting on a hell of a show. He was a gibbon with a beautiful black coat, an extremely prehensile tail...and only one arm. Yet this crippled ape did not let his handicap hinder his daily exercise. Indeed, this handi-capable monkey was swinging to and fro, delighting the children and amazing the one-armed Vietnam Vet up in front, who I'm sure wondered why he couldn't swing like that.

I grew tired of seeing the ADD-afflicted monkey and headed off for more sedate creatures. As a youth, I spent many a day at Lincoln Park Zoo, especially in the company of the gorillas. Kundu was my favorite. He would sit right in front of the glass, a docile, glassy-eyed beast, and when you least expected it, smash his fists into the barrier. Everyone would jump back and laugh. "Ha ha! This monkey is hysterical!" Of course, Kundu wasn't laughing. No, inside he was weeping. Weeping for the day when he had weakened the glass partition to the point that he could finally tear it down, and along with it, the oppression he had faced for decades. He would have revenge for being fed old heads of lettuce and bars of congealed hamster food. Oh yes, he would have revenge. But for now...for now all he could do was pound. But then he died, so...yeah.

The new gorillas weren't as vengeance-fueled as previous beasts, and were therefore less interesting. These mammoth mammals with a penchant for doing absolutely nothing just sat there. That is, until the animal trainer came in. Immediately, all the gorillas looked up. That was all. It's not much, but it would be the most that they would move for the next three days. Little did we, the unsuspecting public know, that the gorillas were staging a silent protest, a la "Gandhi." The movie, not the person. I had my fill of these stoic creatures and took a gander at my watch. So much to see, and so little time.

After my morning of primate study, I decided some scaly, cold-blooded bastardness was necessary. Unfortunately, Tom Sizemore wasn't available this particular afternoon, so I made my to the reptile house instead.

Zing.

Inside the reptile house, I once again heard a familiar noise: sonic-boom inducing hollers of the childish persuasion. I naturally assumed the one-armed gibbon had infiltrated the komodo dragon pen and a massive skirmish was playing out. Sadly, I was mistaken. It was just a stupid kid who got bit by an alligator.

Once the reptile house was closed forever, I found myself far ahead of myself, and my excursion was in danger of coming to a less than satisfactory close. That, my friends, is when I witnessed the most horrible thing I had ever seen in my life. A sight so terrifying that, to this very day, even now as I write this, I suffer from constant, debilitating night terrors. What was this ominous evil I bore witness to?

A kid on a leash.

My God, I thought. What's wrong with that boy that he must be collared like a common, flea-ridden dog. Perhaps the child has fleas, I reasoned, but then quickly threw out this theory. A simple shampooing would get rid of the mites. No, this kid was being harshly treated by his elder, a disgustingly old woman of what seemed to be Polish descent. Now, it seems to me that if I were a Polack, and my fellow countrymen were once rounded up by Nazi's and stuffed into concentration camps, I might be a bit more sensitive to my own kin and probably not put them on leashes like prisoners. The kid struggled, though, and put up a pretty good fight. But every time he got close to escaping, the grandmother would just give him a yank and the choker did all the rest. I shook my head. So sad...so hilariously sad.

Food. I was hungry. But where to go. It was later in the day by now (I watched the leash kid for several hours) and most of the pretzel and popcorn stands were shutting down. I tried to score a Choco-Taco from the local Good Humor man, but he simply laughed me off. He explained that if he just shut down and stopped selling, he would have more ice cream for himself. Plus, Choco-Tacos are a Klondike product, thus he had none. Then, the greedy bastard left. Left with his delicious Choco-Tacos.

I found myself at the exit to Lincoln Park zoo, escorted by several men in uniform of the law enforcement persuasion. Apparently, challenging Good Humor men to fights and threatening to "jam a "Flintstone Push Up" up your ass" is considered not only uncouth, but highly illegal. News to me, I exclaimed, and stormed out of the zoo, never to return again. At least, not until I perfected that fake mustache made of shredded wheat and Mighty Mend-It. But that was still several months away from animal testing, let alone a workable human prototype. Sigh.

And so off I went, into the wild gray yonder of Chicago's streets and buildings, waving goodbye to a brief, yet utterly unforgettable stay at my favorite place on earth: Lincoln Park Zoo. And if you listen very closely, when the smell of zebra shit is at it's most aromatic, you might just hear the sound of a small child screaming, either at high-energy Cripple-Monkeys or because he just escaped from his leash.

What Tickles My Funny Bone...

You know what's funny? This.

Teen Wolf - watch more funny videos