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Foamy Travels
Westworld Magazine - The world is full of rabies.
Get Off Your Buttocks!
If you live in droopy-ass Vancouver, then you've got no goddamn excuse not to come out, support some local artistes, catch some real boner fide Canadian rawk, and down a few cheap pints - especially since you've probably been cooped up in your pad gettin' all bummed out by the weather, the taxpayer-corn-holing Olympic bullshit, and the fact that the future's so bright you gotta' wear diapers.
You know I'm right.
Charles McGraw
His resemblance to a granite boulder made him perfect for film noir, mostly the grade-B variety - Narrow Margin, Roadblock, Side Street. A few forays into A-list territory, but as the boulder got chunkier he moved further into character roles, still at his best playing cops, detectives and assorted hot-tempered heat-packers. His voice sounded like fifty miles of bad Hiroshima gravel road, drinking buddy Robert Mitchum sounding practically like Casper the Friendly Ghost in comparison.
He was a gruff sea salt in The Birds, a gladiator trainer in Spartacus, and a hundred grizzled and grumpy guys named Frank or Jack or Harry on TV - everything from Wagon Train to Mission: Impossible - often begrudgingly exposing a soft, wounded side for the purposes of crapped-up drama. But not before maybe blowing a few fuses and playing a little chin music on some sap's clock.
Not digging the new breed so much, he hit his marks and then the bars. He made no bones about his rampant elbow-bending and love of brawling, but his dark impulses eventually rendered him mostly unemployable and he croaked it all diced up by a shower door after a bathroom tumble in 1980. Only William Holden's death-by-ashtray could have been a more rude and ignominious death.
