In the opening of Tattoos & Tequila, Vince Neil claims his dream job would be renting jet skis to tourists on a private beach. Sadly for him, Neil drew a short straw and somehow ended up as the lead singer for Motley Crue (one of the most popular and successful rock bands of all time) instead.

Tattoos & Tequila was the last memoir to be published by a member of Motley Crue. First was The Dirt, the ultimate sleazy tell-all book which was published in 2001 and has since been turned into a Netflix original film. Following that book, drummer Tommy Lee published his own book, Tommyland, in 2005; that was followed by bassist Nikki Sixx’s The Heroin Diaries in 2007. One might assume there’s not much blood left to squeeze from these four turnips, and for the most part you would be right — 2010’s Tattoos & Tequila adds little to the band’s overall lexicon. Instead, Neil mostly uses his platform to brag about his sexual conquests while making sure readers know just how much he hates the fellow members of Motley Crue.

Neil wastes no time in separating himself from his band mates. In the very first chapter, he clarifies that he’s no longer a member of Motley Crue. “These days I’m basically like a free agent,” he says. “I have a separate deal. I got out because I just didn’t want to deal with their bullshit anymore.” For decades, the Crue’s public image has been one of four inseparable members (Nikki Sixx often referred to the band publicly as a “gang”). If Neil is to be believed, much of that, especially over the past thirty years, has been little more than an act.

Still in the first chapter, Neil makes sure readers know that the guys in Motley Crue “are not my friends. And they haven’t been for a long time.” This theme continues throughout the book. “I just don’t trust Nikki,” he says later. “I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any of the guys in the band. Because they’re not trustworthy.” And later, in case you didn’t catch it — “We don’t really like each other anymore, maybe, but we’ve stayed together for the benefit of the kids.” Throughout the lows of Neil’s life — the DUI that killed his friend Razzle and injured two others, the death of his daughter, his multiple failed marriages — Neil is quick to remind readers that his three band mates never once called to console him. Particularly, the lack of emotional support he received from his band after the death of his daughter Skyler (who passed away at the age of four from cancer) still bothers him. “I know that feeds into my whole resentment of the band as well.”

Technically, Tattoos & Tequila was not written by Neil; it was orally dictated to author Mike Sager, who appears to have simply transcribed Neil’s words. Most of the book reads exactly how one might imagine Neil (a self-described “surfer dude”) actually speaks. Lots of sentences end with “you know?” or “whatever, dude.” The first few chapters are difficult to follow as Neil leaps wildly between topics, jumping back and forth between decades. It’s not until later when the chronological story line begins that things become easier to follow — and even then, many of Neil’s stories lead nowhere, trailing off with “I don’t really remember…”

Once the book begins to resemble a narrative, Neil spends 3/4 of it weaving through tales of sex, drugs, sex, concerts, sex, booze, sex, cars, and more sex. The notches in Neil’s bedpost number somewhere in the hundreds (or possibly thousands), and Neil repeatedly reminds readers of his type (“girls with a smokin’ bod and a nice rack”). There are more than a few humble brags (“Sorry I’m late, but I had to swap out my Ferrari for my Lambo”) and some not so humble (“I’ve always been stronger and in better shape than Nikki”). Most of the sexual encounters Neil mentions happened while he was married, which is why in different sections of the book we get to hear from his first, second, third, and fourth wives. Each time Neil cheats on one of his wives, he offers excuses like, “well, a girl came over and took her clothes off, what was I supposed to do?”

There’s an old saying about how money can’t buy happiness. No matter how much money the guy makes or how many exotic sports cars he buys, every couple of chapters another one of his wives is leaving him. In one chapter, Neil talks about how he’s the most popular guy in LA, throwing parties that last for weeks. A few pages later, he can’t get a single person to pick him up after he is released from jail. And if money can’t buy happiness, based on this book, it surely can’t buy class. Throughout the book, multiple people from Neil’s life including family members, ex-wives, and ex-band mates contribute to the narrative. Few of them have great things to say about the man. The last two interviews are with two of Neil’s grown children, both of whom say they largely communicate with their dad through text messages.

The beginning and ending of the book aren’t tales of old, but stories from the then 48-year-old (now 58-year-old) Vince Neil. It is there that he discusses his latest business ventures. Some of them, like Vince Neil Aviation and Feelgood’s Rock Bar and Grill, didn’t last the test of time, while others, like Neil’s own line of vodka and his tattoo shop located on the Vegas strip, are still around. In addition to his side ventures, Neil expresses a hope that someday his solo band will be as big as Motley Crue is. “I want to get to that next level,” he says in the final chapter. “I want to get to the Ozzy level. I want to headline arenas with my own band.”

At the time this book was published, Neil did not know how his own story would end. Despite his publicly stated disdain for his fellow band members, Neil continued touring with Motley Crue. In 2014, the band announced their Final Tour, signing an official “cessation of touring” agreement to take place by the end of 2015. Fortunately, I was able to attend the show in Oklahoma City.

The end of Motley Crue has allowed Vince Neil to pursue his dream of touring as a solo artist, where he mostly performing Motley Crue hits with a light sprinkling of his own solo songs throughout his sets. According to Vince Neil’s Facebook page, his next appearance will be at the 2019 Hair in the Fair festival, taking place at the Welland state fair in Ontario, Canada.

A long time ago back in the 1980s, a weird kid with a bowl haircut used his family’s video camera to create and record his own videos. Sometimes his friends and family made appearances in his videos, and other times he was the only performer. Some of the videos were skits, while others were simply of him dancing around, lip-syncing to his favorite songs and pretending to play the guitar. When he got a little older, he actually learned how to play the guitar and began writing and recording his own silly songs.

I am, of course, talking about myself.

But I am also talking about “Weird” Paul Petroskey, subject of the 2019 documentary Will Work for Views: The Low-Fi Life of Weird Paul.

In the 1980s, both Paul and I (two kids who lived a thousand miles apart and have never met one another) were both busy recording videos and writing songs. I eventually grew out of creating funny songs and videos, and that’s where my path diverged from Paul’s. Weird Paul continues to write songs and create videos to this day. He has released more than 700 songs, dozens of albums, uploaded almost a thousand videos to YouTube… and unfortunately, has very little to show for it.

Will Work for Views peels the curtain away from “Weird Paul” and gives viewers a view into the daily life of Paul Petroskey. The documentary focuses less on Paul’s creative output and more on the daily struggles he goes through to create it. Because the money Paul makes from his songs and videos doesn’t pay the bills, his primary source of income is a part-time job at Spencer’s Gifts, where he folds t-shirts, works the register, and spends his daily breaks coming up with new song and video ideas. Time spent working at Spencer’s (or on home maintenance) is time spent away from his true passion.

Paul is less obsessed than most musicians about pesky things like sound quality, and uses whatever resources he has on hand to create his art. His vast catalog of old songs were recorded on regular cassette tapes, while his videos have been digitized from decades-old VHS tapes. To this day, Weird Paul films his monthly YouTube videos using a vintage VHS camcorder, laboriously transferring each clip to his computer by way of a VCR while doing things like laying on his back when narrating certain scenes to maintain consistent audio quality.

In his YouTube videos, Weird Paul comes off as positive, happy, and childlike. Whether he’s singing about a pot of macaroni, a guy with a bone disease, or simply talking about his latest thrift store finds, he always has a twinkle in his eye. But when he steps away from his happy place, reality quickly creeps in. Paul admits he’s getting older and increasingly tired, and wonders when his big break will come. In a particularly revealing scene, Paul’s live-in girlfriend (artist Niffer Desmond) interrupts a scene to point out that the couple’s home is quite literally falling apart, with pieces of plaster falling from the ceiling, broken plumbing, and a basement full of mold.

There are hints that Weird Paul’s window to success is closing, with talks of limited income, limited time, limited resources, and even limited amounts of energy. If money were no object, I have no doubt Weird Paul would be uploading new content on a daily basis. Everything he does outside of that is simply a means to an end.

In separate moments during the documentary, both Paul and Niffer state that the mark of a successful artist is the ability to make a living from his or her art. They’re wrong. The mark of a successful artist is the ability to spark emotion in others through the art they create, and by that definition, Weird Paul is most certainly a success. His music is not for everyone; then again, whose is? Weird Paul is as honest and genuine as he is weird. Regardless of whether or not viewers think Paul will ever find the widespread success and validation he so desperately seeks, it’s impossible to walk away from this film not rooting for the guy.

Will Work for Views: The Low-Fi Life of Weird Paul is available through Amazon, YouTube Red, and other streaming services.

NOTE: Weird Paul does not make any money from sales or views of this documentary. Instead, I recommend checking out Weird Paul’s YouTube Channel, Patreon Page, Bandcamp Page, and Weird Paul’s website where he sells physical copies of his albums and other merchandise.

Multiple times in The Princess Diarist, Carrie Fisher writes that more than anything, she wanted — no, needed — to be loved. As the daughter of Debbie Reynolds, Fisher was thrust into the public eye before she could walk or talk. As a young teen, she dropped out of high school to perform in her mother’s traveling cabaret act. When she enrolled in acting school, it was only because as a high school dropout, she didn’t know what else she could become. What she became, of course, was Princess Leia.

The relationship between an aging Fisher and the beautiful and bold interstellar princess she portrayed is just one of the contradictions examined in Fisher’s last work. Weeks before arriving on the set of Star Wars, a 5’6″, 110-pound Fisher was sent to “fat camp” to lose ten pounds before filming was scheduled to begin. Later in the book, Fisher discusses her life as a “celebrity lap dancer,” her term for a person who signs autographs for money. She writes at length about overzealous fans, all of whom confess Princess Leia was their first crush.

The middle (and largest) section of the book is dedicated to Fisher’s long-rumored affair with Harrison Ford, fifteen years her senior at the time. He had a wife and two kids back at home; she was nineteen, and had only previously dated one boy. If you’re looking for sordid details, you won’t find them in this book. Fisher comes clean about the logistical arrangements, but the details have (perhaps conveniently) been forgotten.

After referencing the diaries she kept during this three month period, she shares them, and this is what lost me. Half of this book consists of journal entries and poetry written by a then nineteen-year-old Fisher, as she falls in love with her co-star and, over time, realizes that the relationship is, at best, one of convenience. The entries are like reading moody and vague Facebook entries from a young girl trying to appear more worldly and wise than she was.

Post-diary entries, Fisher returns to reflecting on her life as an adult — on signing 8x10s for money and whatever else it takes to keep up her shopping habits (or, in other times, keep the lights on). In one particularly heartbreaking story, Fisher recalls a young child who, having just met Fisher at a convention, broke into tears and begged to see “the other, younger Princess Leia.” Considering that this (and each of Fisher’s memoirs) have included pictures of herself from 1977 on the front cover, it’s safe to say Fisher wouldn’t have minded seeing that other princess, too.

Fans of Star Wars will be disappointed in the lack of information related to the film here. (Other than a bit about her interview process and a day with her hairdresser, she writes almost nothing about the trilogy.) Most of the good stories were shared in Fisher’s two previous memoirs, Wishful Drinking and Shockaholic (not to mention the almost-autobiographical Postcards from the Edge.) With little else left to share it seems Fisher dug out the one remaining story she had been keeping to herself (her affair with Ford), and even that isn’t particularly detailed. In a book that details how she came to cope with “selling herself out,” it’s hard not to see this book as an extension of that.

Sadly, Carrie Fisher passed away five weeks after the publication of The Princess Diarist. With nothing left to share, maybe there was simply nothing left. Rest in peace, Princess Leia and Carrie Fisher.

On July 15, 1974, Florida news reporter Christine Chubbuck committed suicide live on the air during a morning broadcast. Christine, released in 2016, is based on the final months of Chubbuck’s life.

It is unfortunate that the signs of depression are not always obvious to outsiders. To her friends and coworkers, Christine Chubbuck (Rebecca Hall) was a respected but introverted news reporter. Her focus in human interest stories were at odds with the times, as grittier, more sensational news stories began to pull in higher ratings. Even when Chubbuck tries to adapt and reports on a local house fire, she spends the entire time interviewing one of the victims and chooses not to capture footage of the actual fire, further infuriating her short-tempered and frustrated boss.

Few of Chubbuck’s coworkers were aware of the young reporter’s struggles outside of work. The discovery of a mass on one of Chubbuck’s ovaries reduced her odds of having children. Having recently relocated from Boston, Chubbuck lives with her mother, who has begun seeing someone. The closest Chubbuck gets to a relationship in the film is when a coworker takes her to dinner, followed by a group therapy session. Things come to a head when Chubbuck realizes she has been passed over for a promotion to a larger station. When Chubbuck confides to her therapy partner all she wants in life is to get married, have children, and do work she enjoys, her partner suggests she should lower her expectations.

To viewers, Chubbuck’s hurdles seem depressing, bot not worth taking her life over. Again, that’s the problem with depression and mental health; what to others may seem like major or even minor setbacks can seem like insurmountable obstacles to others.

The final moments of Chubbuck’s life are shocking and heart-breaking as she announces to her broadcast audience what is about to happen. One of her final acts was to leave behind notes for the next broadcaster to read, describing herself in third person as being rushed to a local hospital in critical condition.

During the film’s closing credits I found it impossible not to think about those I’ve known who ended their own lives prematurely. We can never truly know the extent to which others are suffering, but we can be kind, and we make ourselves available. We can do it for them. We can do it for Christine Chubbuck.

In the first line of NOFX’s memoir, Fat Mike (the band’s bass player and vocalist) talks about the first time he drank his girlfriend’s urine. By the end of the second paragraph she has also tasted his, and by the end of the third, he has sampled his own. By the end of this paragraph, you should be able to tell whether or not The Hepatitis Bathtub and Other Stories is for you.

The California-based punk band NOFX was formed in 1983 by vocalist/bassist Fat Mike and guitarist Eric Melvin, and were quickly joined by Erik “Smelly” Sandin on drums. Eventually, after a series of other guitarists, Aaron “El Hefe” Abeyta joined the band on lead guitar in 1991. For NOFX, punk is more than a style of music; it is their ethos. The band proudly boasts they have never signed to a major label, leaving the quartet to march to the drum of their own vices.

And let’s be absolutely clear — there are a lot of vices.

Throughout the book’s 350+ pages, the four members of NOFX (Mike, Melvin, Smelly, and El Hefe) along with a couple of former members (Dave and Steve) take turns sharing stories that most normal people would prefer to take with them to their grave. A third of the way into the book, you’ll wish the worst thing you had learned was that Fat Mike likes to drink pee. Most of the guys were alcoholics or using drugs before they were old enough to drive. The surprise isn’t that several of the guys went on to develop full-blown drug addictions; it’s that any (much less all) of them lived to see the age of 30.

Story by story, the guys take turns piecing together the history of NOFX in mostly chronological order. If ever a book was able to share the details of sex, drugs and rock and roll without making it look glamorous, this is the one. In the early days, NOFX consisted of four out-of-control kids (fueled by alcohol and drugs) who played backyard shows to tens of people earning tens of dollars. A decade later, the still out-of-control quartet was now playing shows to hundreds of people for (maybe) hundreds of dollars. There was a time in my life when riding in a van for weeks on end while surviving on beer and one meal a day might have sounded like an exciting challenge, but those days have long passed. And never has having someone poop in my shower or urinate in my utensil drawer sounded like fun.

You probably wouldn’t have wanted to have been a NOFX fan in the early 80s, as according to the band’s memories at least one person the band knew got beat up, stabbed, or shot at every show. Those were the shows that didn’t end in a riot. Some rock stars brag about the number of cars or gold records they own; Fat Mike boasts that he “still has his own teeth,” which in this scene is an accomplishment. Most of the band’s stories about their close friends end with “and then he died” or “and then he went to prison.”

A lot of the band’s abhorrent and destructive behavior would be tolerable (or at least easier to ignore) if it were limited to people within their own circle, but they achieve an even higher level of unlikable when take advantage of their own fans’ hospitality. Shortly after recording their first demo, the band drove eight hours east to perform a show in Reno, Nevada. After the show, the guys crashed at a guy’s house whose only rule was “don’t bring any girls back here.” They brought girls back there. Years later while on tour, they crashed at a random girl’s house who said they could help themselves to anything in her house except her senior project which was inside her refrigerator, and she needed to graduate from college the following day. They destroyed it. Everyone who was generous enough to let the band crash at their house ended up with crabs on their toilet, spray paint on their walls, or (as the book’s title references) a bathtub full of hepatitis.

Unlike similar tell-all books by Motley Crue and the Beastie Boys, at no point do the members of NOFX ever apologize for their past sins. In those (and most) memoirs, the storyteller’s voice and viewpoint is one of an older and wiser individual, able to look back on past sins through additional life experiences. The Hepatitis Bathtub and Other Stories adds no such wisdom while reminiscing; it’s mostly just a collection of stories about people getting stabbed, arrested, screwed, beaten, drunk, and stoned, with little if any repentance. Other than the time Smelly spent in rehab for heroin, the closest any of the guys come to growing up is when Fat Mike cut down his pre-show ritual of “20 milligrams of Vicodin, four or five martinis, and snorting lines of coke during the show” to “just 10 milligrams of Vicodin” (plus the martinis). This compromise took place around his 40th birthday.

Toward the end of the book, the guys talk about their business ventures outside the band. El Hefe opened his own club, and seemed genuinely dumbfounded when all his “friends” stole from him. Melvin opened a coffee shop, admitted he didn’t know anything about owning or running a coffee shop, and lost a couple hundred thousand dollars in the process. Stinky formed a motocross team and had a lot of fun for fifteen years and didn’t make a dime. Only Fat Mike, who founded the record label the band is on, seems to have made any money doing anything other than getting wasted and playing three chords over and over.

Like a lot of people, I discovered the music of NOFX in the mid-90s when other punk bands like Green Day, Rancid, and Bad Religion broke through to the mainstream. And while I enjoyed (and continue to enjoy) the music of NOFX, I wouldn’t let anybody in (or associated with) that band within 1,000 yards of anybody I loved or anything I owned. Maybe 2,000 yards. The antics of NOFX are as entertaining to read as they are appalling, but it’ll be tough to listen to the band’s music without thinking of heroin withdrawals, violence, and butt plugs.

Dozens and dozens of Christmas movies are released every year. Occasionally one of them, like 2003’s Elf, breaks through the pack and becomes a part of our holiday traditions, working its way into regular seasonal rotation alongside other classics such as A Christmas Story, Miracle on 34th Street, and It’s a Wonderful Life, among others.

But in 2003, the same year Elf was released, we also saw Blizzard (directed by LeVar Burton and featuring voices by Whoopi Goldberg), Stealing Christmas (a TV movie starring Tony Danza), and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation 2: Cousin Eddie’s Island Adventure, a movie I once almost got into a fist fight over whether or not it even existed. The point is, of all the holiday films that get released each year, only a few go on to become perennial favorites. The rest end up out in the dumpster, along with shreds of wrapping paper and candy cane wrappers.

The first act of the 2018 Netflix exclusive The Christmas Chronicles feels more like a Hallmark Christmas movie than a big budget film. After a series of home movie clips in which we run through several of the the Pierce family’s previous Christmases, viewers are dropped into 2018 only to learn that Doug (the family patriarch) has passed away, taking much of the family’s Christmas spirit with him. Left behind are Claire, the mom who works extra shifts at the hospital to make ends meet; Teddy, the fifteen-year-old who, with little parental supervision, has started running with the wrong crowd; and Kate, the eleven-year-old daughter who picks up the slack by doing the dishes, taking out the trash, and preparing dinners. Despite everyone’s (or at least Claire and Kate’s) efforts, the Pierce family is unraveling.

The plot begins to roll when Claire is called into work on Christmas Eve, leaving Teddy and Kate home by themselves. Kate, using video she recorded of her brother stealing a car as leverage, convinces Teddy into staying up late to attempt to capture video of Santa delivering toys. Ensuring they’ll capture footage of the jolly one and inspired by Kevin McCallister, the kids set up a series of traps guaranteed to trip up Santa. Somehow all of this works, and before long not only have the siblings caught footage of Santa (which turned out to be remarkably easy), but hidden themselves in the back of his sleigh. When St. Nick discovers the stowaways mid-flight, things go terribly wrong. The sleigh crashes to earth, causing a series of incidents that must be corrected in order to save Christmas: Santa’s reindeer must be recaptured, his bag of toys must be located, and, perhaps most importantly of all, Santa’s magic hat which was lost in the crash must be found. Santa’s hat, we learn, is the sole source of all his magic.

If the first act of the film is Home Alone the remainder is Adventures in Babysitting, with a dash of A Christmas Carol. Santa, Teddy, and Kate — stranded in Chicago and without the use of Santa’s magic — must find Santa’s missing reindeer, toys, and hat with enough time left to still deliver toys to every good boy and girl around the globe. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and before the sun comes up the trio has stolen a car, called upon elves for help, and performed a musical number in quite possibly the cleanest jail in Chicago.

Despite several timely references — namedropping Uber, Amber Alerts, a new Dodge Charger, and even “fake news” for example — The Christmas Chronicles feels like it takes place a decade or two ago. In one particularly dated plot point, Kate carries a Sony camcorder with her throughout the film, which she uses to capture the evenings events. Not only is the camcorder jarringly dated (my youngest asked what it was), but it’s a constant reminder that Kate and Teddy, ages eleven and fifteen, are the last two kids on earth without cellphones.

Along the way, Teddy and Kate learn the reason for the season, but it’s a little disappointing to see Santa’s elves getting so much screen time. A cross between Gnomes and Minions, Santa’s CGI helpers tinker their way into every crisis, saving the day time and time again. Both Santa and the kids are lucky he brought the elves along — without them, his sleigh would have remained busted, Santa would have spent (at least) the night in jail, millions of children would have woken up to empty stockings Christmas morning, and Kate and Teddy would most likely be dead.

The Christmas Chronicles is fun to watch, despite the fact that most of the actors seem like they’re in the middle of a TV movie. The one exception is Kurt Russell, who brings a sack full of his personal charm to the role of Santa. (How tough it must be for St. Nick to live in a world where, despite knowing every single person’s name, every gift they’ve ever asked for, every detail of their modern life, and being able to pull any gift at all at any time out of his red coat, people still don’t believe he’s the real deal!). Many of the character choices throughout the film are questionable, and by the time Santa’s playing piano in jail cell with Steven Van Zandt’s band and a group of prostitutes on backup vocals, you start to wonder how exactly we got here. There are lots of questions about where Santa’s magic begins and ends and how things work on Christmas Eve, but this is a Christmas movie, and the time to check your logic was before starting the film, not during. For what it’s worth, there’s a payoff at the end worth sticking around for.

Will be people watching The Christmas Chronicles five or ten years from now during the holiday season? I doubt it. It’s a bit formulaic with few surprises along the way to earn a spot in regular rotation. That being said, there are worse ways to spend an evening than sitting down in front of the fireplace with a glass of eggnog and watching Kurt Russell do his thing. Ho, ho, ho!

I was too young to remember the controversy surrounding 1984’s Silent Night, Deadly Night (the movie that dressed a psychotic ax-wielding murderer in a red and white Santa Suit) when it was released, but I am old enough to to remember the heyday of video rental stores. As a teen in the mid-80s, I spent many Friday nights with my buddy Jeff wandering up and down the aisles of our local rental store in search of movies to rent. There were no cellphones or internet back then, no instant link to millions of online reviews at our fingertips. All a couple of teens had to go on back then was word of mouth, employee recomendations, and, perhaps most importantly of all, the artwork on the front of the rental box. There were many movies Jeff and I discovered and rented, movies like Chopping Mall, Ghoulies, and Return to Horror High, all because of their artwork. 1984’s Silent Night, Deadly Night, with its iconic photograph of Santa’s arm coming out of a brick chimney while holding an ax, was one of the films we discovered during that time.

The film opens with five-year-old Billy riding in the car, along with his parents and infant brother Ricky, on his way to visit Billy’s catatonic grandfather. When Billy’s parents step away for a moment (leaving Billy alone inside the “Utah Mental Facility”), grandfather briefly awakens from his comatose state and informs Billy that Christmas Eve is the “scariest damn night of the year,” because that’s the night Santa comes to punish children. For many children this might be the most traumatic event of their entire life, but for Billy, it’s only the second most traumatic event of the day. A few hours later during their return trip, a man in a Santa suit pretending to have car trouble flags down the family and, as Billy watches, shoots his father in the head and slits his mother’s throat.

If you’re wondering why Billy’s grandfather woke up from his catatonic state (or was he faking?), why he decided to scare the bejesus out of his grandson, who this murderous Santa is, or who rescued Billy and Ricky from the side of the road, don’t bother. You have entered the realm of the 80s slasher flick, a world where characters and plot points blow into and out of films as freely as the wind. Neither grandpa nor the murderous Santa return to the film — and as for Ricky’s story arc, you’ll have to watch Silent Night, Deadly Night II for that. Let’s just say the ornament didn’t fall too far from the tree.

Billy and Ricky wind up at Saint Mary’s Home for Orphaned Children. Despite the fact that Billy’s parents were murdered on the side of the road by a guy in a Santa suit, Mother Superior can’t imagine why Billy wouldn’t like Christmas, and punishes him with a belt when he turns in Christmas artwork featuring a decapitated reindeer (which, for the record, is way better looking than some of the things I’ve bought on Etsy). If Mother Superior has one lesson for the orphans, it’s that children should be nurtured and loved. Just kidding; her motto is, “those who do bad things need to be punished.”

Once it’s been thoroughly established that the orphanage is a rotten place for kids, we make our third time leap of the film. Now eighteen and “all growed up,” Billy has landed a job at a local toy store through some sort of orphan vocational program established by the nuns. There’s a long montage of Billy working at the toy store, which is really great if you love the 1980s because there are dozens of shots of Billy and his co-workers interacting with loaded toy shelves. Other than going a little haywire each time he sees a picture of Santa, Billy is a model employee.

UNTIL THAT ONE DAY WE ALL KNEW WAS COMING, the day Santa called in sick, Ira needed someone to fill in, and we all know who the rented suit just happened to fit. Finally, almost exactly halfway through the film, Billy snaps. That guy in the warehouse who was a jerk to Billy? HANGED WITH A STRING OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS! The girl Billy caught having sex in the store’s warehouse? GUTTED LIKE A FISH! EVERYONE WHO DOES WRONG MUST ALL BE PUNISHED! Ira, the guy who gave Billy a job and treated him super nice? CLAW HAMMER TO THE HEAD! Wait, why did Ira get killed? Who cares! Halfway through the film, Silent Night is over and we’ve landed squarely in Deadly Night territory.

The last 45 minutes are reindeer-shit crazy. While Billy hacks his way back toward the orphanage, the local police can’t seem to figure out where he’s headed — despite the fact that since the age of five, the only two places on the planet Billy has ever been are apparently the orphanage and the toy store. If the first half of the film was the slow build up, the last half is the payoff. Billy heads off to the orphanage, dishing out some random seasons greetings along the way.

The extended cut of Silent Night, Deadly Night is only 85 minutes long (that’s with credits), and the theatrical cut (with most of the gore cut out) was only 79 minutes in length. With some tight editing and removal of several scenes that add little to the plot, it would be pretty easy to whittle it down to a solid hour. Neither pacing nor plot are the film’s strong points, and if the killer hadn’t been wearing a Santa Claus suit, I doubt this film would be any more memorable than any other 80s slasher flicks. Fortunately for them, and us, someone had the foresight to set this movie on Christmas eve, and if you don’t think Christmas and horror make a good combination, then I’m guessing you haven’t seen Silent Night, Deadly Night parts two, three, four, or five.

Silent Night, Deadly Night has been released on a special edition Blu-ray that includes both cuts of the film, along with a brief documentary and a commentary track. If that ain’t worth asking Santa for, I don’t know what is.

In the early days of reality television, you couldn’t turn on a television without catching a glimpse of Jesse James’ mug. Between Discovery specials featuring his motorcycle shop West Coast Choppers, an appearance on The Apprentice, and his hit television series Monster Garage, Jesse James — who claims to be a distant relative of the original outlaw — was on his way to becoming a megastar. Multiple seasons of reality programs featuring James’ boyish looks and bad ass biker attitude made audiences think they knew the real Jesse James. In American Outlaw you’ll discover just how little you know about the man behind the golden handlebars.

James, whose parents separated when he was six years old, spent his formative years living with his father, who was both physically and emotionally abusive. The only thing stable in James’ young life was a constant stream of instability. Before graduating high school, James had been kicked out of his father’s home (after falsely being accused of burning it down), moved in with a high school sweetheart (whom he discovered was cheating on him), and routinely stole and sold cars (until his best friend and cohort in crime turned him in to the police). His only outlet for years of pent up rage was football, and although he excelled at the sport, he was doing time in a juvenile detention center when recruiters came with scholarships. A brief college career was cut short by a freak knee injury on the field.

Before becoming Jesse James the Bike Builder, James worked a variety of jobs — from welding in Seattle to providing security for bands such as Danzig and Slayer. Eventually, James combined his nose-to-the-grindstone work ethic and welding skills and found success in a local hot rod shop. From there he started making motorcycle parts on the side, and by the time he was making ten times his regular salary by selling motorcycle parts on the side, James quit the hot rod business and West Cost Choppers was born.

With no examples of a healthy relationship as a guide, it’s unsurprising to learn about James’ multiple failed marriages. First there was Karla, the mother of his first two children, who filed for divorce after failing to compete with James’ first two loves: work, and alcohol. Then there was Janine, adult film star and mother of his third child, a manic/depressive who seemed more interested in James’ money and fame than him. Finally, the book delves into James five-year marriage to American sweetheart Sandra Bullock, and how it was rocked apart when news of James’ infidelity hit tabloid papers across the globe.

In the book’s final chapters, James leaves California and heads to a rehab facility in Arizona. Never one to be described as a touchy-feely guy, James does ultimately open up about the scars of his childhood. While his initial goal of saving his third marriage fails to pan out, readers can only hope the higher goal of self-healing pans out.

Throughout his whirlwind life, James seems baffled by his own fame, and wonders why anyone would wait in line for an autograph from a “blue collar welding monkey” like himself. But it’s precisely that attitude that draws people to him. At the end of the day, after all the film crews have packed up and gone home, James is still happiest building and riding motorcycles.

If you’re looking for the origin of the “shark attack” genre, you would have to travel back just over 40 years to 1975’s Jaws, which unleashed a Great White Shark on the citizens of Amity Island and spawned a series of sequels and copycats. To find the origin of the Megalodon, the prehistoric star of 2018’s The Meg, you would need to go back an additional 2-20 million years.

Billionaire Jack Morris (Rainn Wilson) is the proud owner of Mana One, a state of the art underwater research facility located in the Pacific Ocean. The oceanic researchers at Mana One believe that the floor of the Marianas Trench is not solid, but rather a layer of gas that, given the right circumstances, could be breached. Their theory proves right, and one of Mana’s research vessels is able to break through this layer where they discover uncharted ocean depths. They also discover THE MEGALODON, which quickly traps the vessel on the ocean floor and renders it inoperable.

Six miles up, the staff of Mana One quickly decide the only person on the planet qualified to rescue their stranded compadres is the disgraced Jonas Taylor (Jason Statham) — previously shamed and labeled crazy having claimed to have encountered the Megalodon on a previous rescue mission. Initially Taylor refuses to assist in the rescue and claims there’s nothing in the world that could change his mind; however, thirty seconds later Taylor discovers his ex-wife is one of the trapped crew members, and suddenly he’s on the first train to Sharksville.

During the ensuing rescue, we learn of some scientific loophole that has allowed the Megalodon to exit its previous holdig cell and enter the ocean. This, like several plot points, are conveyed through official-looking computer graphics, displays, and touchscreens. None of the points matter much, of course. All viewers really need to know is a 75-foot killing machine has been unleashed, and is coming for the Mana One. (There’s also a computer graphic showing you how big a 75-foot shark is compared to a human being, in case you weren’t sure.) To borrow the tagline from Jaws: The Revenge: “This time, it’s personal.”

The rest of the movie — and any shark movie, really — consists of people hunting a shark, and a shark hunting people. There are plot holes and (occasionally fatally) bad decisions, but The Meg doesn’t linger on any of them long enough for you to think about them. Before you have time to ask, “isn’t going down in a diving bell near a 75-foot killer shark a bad idea?” you’ll already know the answer.

If there’s any surprise to the film at all, it’s that it’s PG-13. Ostensibly in search of a more mainstream audience, the film forgoes the hardcore gore and harsh language one would expect to see and hear when the plan involves “swim up to a 75-foot shark and poke it in the eye with something.”

It’s hard not to imagine what Stephen Spielberg and “Bruce” )the notoriously unpredictable mechanical shark used in the filming of Jaws) would have to say about the Megalodon itself. For Spielberg and fans of monster movies alike, the film’s ~$150 million budget is a shark-infested dream come true. Without a doubt, the film’s sets and special effects are probably better than the movie deserves. Where “Bruce” began to shake and malfunction after being submerged in only a few feet of water, the prehistoric shark in The Meg has no problem ascending the six miles from the (new) ocean floor to attack boats cruising along the surface. In that aspect, The Meg wins the depth war. When it comes to depth of characters or plot, Jaws still holds the title.

Adam “King Ad-Rock” Horovitz and Mike “Mike D” Diamond — two founding members of the legendary Beastie Boys — spend the first hundred or so pages of the new voluminous Beastie Boys Book describing New York City as it appeared in the early 1980s. It’s a bit wild, with lots of (unsupervised) teens hanging out at clubs, causing mischief, and discovering music both before and of their time. It was in that setting that Horovitz and Diamond met Adam “MCA” Yauch, discovered and dabbled in the hardcore punk music scene, and eventually went on to form one of the most popular hip hop groups of all time. And while the Beastie Boys were active for three decades working with multiple DJs, producers, and musicians, if there was ever a permanent fourth member of the band, you might say it was New York City itself.

If you (like me) discovered the Beasties in 1987 shortly after MTV added “Fight For Your Right (To Party)” into heavy video rotation, you should be aware that the recording of the band’s debut Licensed to Ill doesn’t begin until shortly after page 200. The book covers a lot of historical ground before ramping up to the band’s mainstream breakthrough hit. The earliest incarnation of the Beastie Boys can be traced back to a hardcore band called The Young Aborigines, featuring Michael Diamond (and, notably, Kate Schellenbach from Luscious Jackson). It was in 1981 when Adam Yauch joined the band that the group adopted the Beastie Boy moniker. Around the time Adam Horovitz joined the group in 1982, the Boys had already begun to dip their toes in the newly emerging rap genre. Not long after, the guys recorded their first rap single (a prank phone call played a drum beat titled “Cooky Puss”). For a short period of time the band split their live sets between hardcore punk songs and feeble raps, but as the band’s infatuation with hip hop culture continued to blossom, Kate Schellenbach was left behind, Rick Rubin (co-founder of Def Jam Records and the band’s first DJ) was in, and the lineup that existed when the band broke big was officially set in place.

The band’s story, almost 600 pages of it, is relayed here by Diamond and Horovitz in a first-person and mostly-linear fashion. The chapters are small and bite-sized — many only two or three pages in length. Like the musical samples the band is famous for, the narrative is sprinkled with guest appearances, recollections, and sidebars. Just like “Bouillabaisse,” a spicy fish-based soup that the Beastie Boys once named a track after, the book contains everything from a comedic review of the band’s attire by fashion journalist Andre Leon Talley, to a series of wisecracks about their music videos by comedian and New York transplant Amy Poehler. With frequent changes in authors and even typography, the book’s style is more Paul’s Boutique than Licensed to Ill.

With so many stories thrown in, it’s interesting to note who and what weren’t included between the covers. DJ Hurricane’s name (the band’s touring DJ for more than a decade) appears exactly twice in the book: once in a short list of the band’s former DJs, and once in the following sentence: “Then DJ Hurricane played some kind of intro, and we went onstage…” Mix Master Mike, Hurricane’s replacement and the band’s permanent DJ since 1998, gets a single two-page article in the form of an odd interplanetary space diary entry. Again, this is a book that devotes twenty pages to the kid who designed the first Beastie Boys website, and gives Spike Jonze another twenty to add captions to a series of photographs taken during the “Sabotage” video shoot. The nearly complete absence of any discussion in regards to the band’s two primary DJs is a glaring hole.

Also missing for the most part, in case you were looking for some, is dirt. There’s no mention of the band’s flare up with Prodigy, or the 2015 lawsuit against Monster Energy Drinks for using their music without permission. Other than briefly touching on their well-publicized beef with 3rd Base’s MC Serch (the Boys once threw garbage from an upstairs window at Serch when he rang their doorbell and interrupted their hangover sleep), the book mostly side steps (or completely ignores) any conflicts the band may have experienced, both external and internal.

The one exception is their falling out with Rick Rubin, parts of which are covered in more detail here than ever before. The Boys, particularly Horovitz, pull no punches when it comes to documenting the parting of ways with the co-owner of their label, DJ, and at least at one time, kindred spirit. Horovitz paints Rubin as a control freak in the studio and a flake who jumped ship during the Beastie Boys tour, leaving them without a DJ. Details about withholding royalty payments from their debut album (which sold more than ten-million copies) are included. While Beastie Boys Book is obviously Horovitz’s and Diamond’s recollection of things, some of their criticism seems one-sided. Many well-established factors in the band’s split with Def Jam (including the fact that Rubin had pegged Horovitz for a solo act, while fellow Def Jam co-founder Russell Simmons was looking the steal Yauch from the group) go unmentioned. Both Rhyming and Stealing: A History of the Beastie Boys by Angus Batey (1998) and The Men Behind Def Jam by Alex Ogg (2002) cite Rolling Stone interviews with the guys about the falling out that don’t appear here.

Other than the split with Def Jam (a beef I assumed had been long been buried, until I read this book), the band seems content to not only let sleeping dogs lie, but make amends where they can. Most of their poor decisions and falling outs are blamed on their own immaturity and alcohol abuse. The take the high road and make several heartfelt apologies within the book, going as far as to give the early-ousted Kate Schellenbach her own mini-chapter to comment on her departure.

The Beastie Boys Book is not the ultimate all-encompassing story of the band; instead, it’s 600 pages worth of memories from a couple of guys (and a few of their friends) recounting one of the most memorable and amazing musical trips through modern history. From requesting an inflatable penis as a stage prop for their first tour to organizing the Tibetan Freedom Concerts in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park (attended by more than 120,000 people), the Beastie Boys have grown a lot, seen a lot, and done a lot, and this book documents hundreds of moments that took place along the way.

Also included are dozens and dozens of candid photographs culled from the band’s personal collection. Everything from the pre-Beasties (decked out in hardcore gear) all the way to live shots from the band’s final tour are on display here, many in full color. Specific moments, like Mike D tweaking the sliders on a mixing board in the studio as Run-DMC look on, capture pivotal moments in time. In an era where celebrities post every meal on Instagram, it’s easy to forget how rare it was to take (and keep) so many photos in the 1980s, and it’s wonderful to see so many of them here on display.

If the book is missing anything at all, it’s Adam “MCA” Yauch’s unique voice. Yauch was often the glue that held the band together and frequently the guy steering the ship. Yauch passed away from cancer in 2012 at the age of 47, thus bringing an untimely close to the band’s career. Both Horovitz and Diamond have done a good job of both including Yaunch’s stories while being careful not to speak for him, but they readily admit upfront that his unique view of the world would have added a different flavor to the book.

If you’ve always wanted to know more about the real Tadrach and Johnny Ryall, the King Adrock’s thoughts on carrying cassette tapes around New York City (winter is better, because you have more pockets), what it was like to tour with Madonna, and a million other things, Beastie Boys Book is for you. It answers a lot of questions, poses a few new ones, and, sadly, is the closest thing to a new Beastie Boys album we’re likely to ever get.