Yours truly, old Dekkappai, has reached the point in his life when mortality is pressing its nose against, and fogging up the window of his consciousness. What did the great men do when faced with thoughts of death? Sibelius responded with his Fourth Symphony. Kurosawa responded with Ikiru. And Dekkappai? He wonders how he can sneak out as easily, quickly and painlessly as possible, hoping that he doesn't make too much of a fool of himself in the process-- blubbering and whimpering or shitting his pants or something... What have I ever asked from life? Big, fleshy-assed, thick-legged, soft-bellied, buxom Asian women. And my life has been blessed in that regard. So, should a long, drawn-out, humiliating death be imminent, and pre-emption by euthanasia look like the best way out, here is how I want to exit this vale of tears: Death by suffocation. Smothered between the breasts and/or buttocks, of a big, fat, bouncy, beautiful Asian lass. (Pictured at right: Karen Toudou unsheathing one of the weapons of mercy by which I, Dekkappai, wish to meet my demise.) Oh, death, where is thy sting?During the day I gathered the data for my next Boobpedia project, a new series which features supposedly amateur women with immense bazooms. I say "supposedly" because experienced actresses pretending to be amateurs has a long and respected history in Japanese AV. (Something like Wakamatsu's "Second-Time Virgin") And I think-- at first glance-- that I've seen a couple of these gals before... although I can only judge from their breasts, their faces being covered to protect their privacy... or to create the illusion of it. I'll start a few stubs on the new actresses in the JAMS series tomorrow, then start the new DVD series. After my Boobpedia work for the evening, I made my first post here on this blog, about the activities of the previous day, and their distantly-related ramblings, grumblings and rants. That's probably how I'll do things here, or gather up bits and pieces until I've got enough to post. Post it. Then fiddle around with it forever.
After turning off the computer I watched one of my Mill Creek Spaghetti Westerns, Keoma (1976). It being a late entry in the spaghetti cycle, I wasn't expecting much. But it turned out to be pretty damned good, the last gasp of life from a genre on its death bed. It's an anti-racist statement-- with good old Woody Strode in a supporting role. It had one flaw, however, and that one flaw was so major it will, all by itself, prevent me from watching the film again. That flaw: The soundtrack. Oh sweet Jesus in heaven, just thinking about it makes me cringe. It's an unbearable and interminable narrative ballad which runs through the film, commenting on the action. It's sung by a shrill, screechy-voiced woman apparently trying to imitate Joan Baez or Joni Mitchell, or some folk-pop singer of the 1960s. I prayed, I begged, for another singer to take over. Anyone, I thought, would be better. Then-- God be praised!-- another singer took over! A man... but... wait a minute... good God... he's even WORSE than the woman! I kid you not! He sang like a man who had had a tracheotomy. Nothing against people with tracheotomies, but should they really be singing film soundtracks? Anyway, the male singer's tuneless moaning and mumbling made me miss the shrieking of the old crone... but not for long, as she soon relieved the male crooner.
If I could have turned off just the music it would have been a fine little film... I find out from IMDb that the male singer was none other than Franco Nero-- who, in the role of Keoma, was the star of the film. Well, he should have stuck to acting... Hearing that god-awful racket made me think that the poor guy needed to be put out of his misery. I prayed for his and my delivery from this pitiful, excruciating wailing. Over on the right, Nero, there's your relief from suffering, in the body of that angel of mercy, Shizuka Kyouno, in her starring role in Step-Mother's Huge, Fat Tits: Shizuka Kyouno.
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