Backstreet Justice

"Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In" for 9/8/94

cutline: The complete plot of "Backstreet Justice," as demonstrated by Linda Kozlowski.

By Joe Bob Briggs

Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, Texas

Well, we're not supposed to use the word FAT anymore.

Sorry, I couldn't help it.

So it was a little strange when this new study came out from the National Center for Health Statistics, announcing that ONE-THIRD of everybody in America is . . .

Okay, I won't say it.

Paunchy, obese, rotund, pot-bellied, oversized, elephantine, roly-poly, massive, gigantic, blubbery, TUBS OF LARD.

There, that's better.

And the definition of being a Land Whale is 20 per cent or more ABOVE your correct weight, which means we got a whole lot of Flesh Monsters that didn't get counted cause they just missed the cut-off.

Not only did they find out that there's, like, EIGHTY MILLION Chunkmeisters out there, but it's getting worse every year. We have 31 per cent MORE Walking Office Buildings than we had 10 years ago. We've got people up there in Missouri putting stress fractures in the foundations of their tract homes, you know what I mean?

We've got Lard-Ladling old people that spend $40,000 a year on six-dollar all-you-can-eat Holiday Inn buffet dinners.

And listen to this part of it. You know how it's always the men who are accused of being couch potatoes, sitting around watchin football, nursin their beer bellies? Well, it turns out that women are WORSE. Only 31 per cent of the guys are overweight, but 35 per cent of the gals. We might be couch potatoes, but some of these women have butts that look like squids seen through the glass at the aquarium.

And then the government tries to figure out WHY everybody is turning into Cheese Whoppers with arms, and their conclusion is . . . "low physical activity level."

Well, no kiddin, Mr. Churchill. Some of these people can't even see their feet without doing three hours on a Thighmaster first.

But the funny thing was, the media tried to report this whole story without ever using the word "fat."

I think this might be WHY we have so many Aunt Jemima Frozen Waffle People. Because nobody ever uses this WORD around em. Maybe what they really need is somebody to get in their face and say, "You're FAT. You're, like, REALLY REALLY FAT."

And maybe SOME of em would go, "Oh, okay, yeah, when you put it like that," and lose some weight.

But if we don't ever say FAT, they might just think their shoes are on too tight or something.

Does this make sense to you?

Anyhow, speaking of stuff that doesn't make a lick of sense, this flick called "Backstreet Justice" just came out, and it's basically the story of a female private eye in a scummy Pittsburgh neighborhood who's trying to solve all these murder and rape cases, only the cops aren't helping, and she even thinks maybe the cops are DOING the murders, and she has to prove herself because her father was a corrupt cop, and the vicious police captain played by Paul Sorvino hates her, and her sort-of boyfriend is a cop, but every time she comes home there's a cop sneaking into somebody's apartment or running up the fire escape of her building. (And I do mean EVERY time she comes home.)

It's kind of a goofy story, where she's hired by this community crime network to solve the crimes, only one of the leaders of it starts trying to get her thrown out, and then she goes down into the county archives and decides that MAYBE her dad wasn't a bad cop after all, and then she hangs around a lot with the retired D.A. who thinks of her like a daughter, and then she goes to the nursing home to see her crazy mama Tammy Grimes, and sometimes she takes time out to kung-fu some burglars and throw killer cops off of rooftopswith the help of her cool Negro partner.

In other words, way too much plot getting in the way of the story. It kinda feels like one of those scripts where somebody REALLY believed in it, like they said "This film is, like, my LIFE, man," only they didn't realize that YOU CAN'T EXPLAIN YOUR WHOLE GOLDANG LIFE IN ONE MOVIE.

How many times do I have to explain these things?

Eight dead bodies. Three breasts. Coffee in the face. Aardvarking. Bomb. Roof plunge. Kung Fu. Taser Fu. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Linda Kozlowski, as the I-never-sleep vigilante who has nightmare flashbacks about her daddy and says "Mort's a defendant waiting to happen" and "Let's get drunk"; Paul Sorvino, as the screaming, red-faced, STOCKY police captain who says "I'm not through with you!"; Tammy Grimes, as the dotty old half-crazed mama, for sobbing hysterically and saying "Daddy was gonna get him"; Hector Elizondo, as the retired D.A. who doesn't really have much to do with the story but does it well; and Chris McIntyre, the writer/director, whose motto is "Hey, HERE's something we could throw in."

Three stars.

Joe Bob says check it out.

JOE BOB'S ADVICE TO THE HOPELESS

Capitalist Alert! The Apache Drive-In in Tucson, which reopened last June, has been closed down AGAIN, and this time nobody's talking. What are they doing, toying with our emotions? Marty Ketola reminds us that, without eternal vigilance, it can happen here. To discuss the meaning of life with Joe Bob, or to get free junk in the mail and his world-famous newsletter, "The Joe Bob Report," write Joe Bob Briggs, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, TX 75221. Joe Bob's Fax line: 214-368-2310. Joe Bob's Compuserve address: 76702,1435.

Dear Joe Bob,

I have a friend who sends me your movie reviews. I am presently incarcerated, so I need all the humor I can get.

What do you know about the number 13? I'm enclosing an article someone mailed to me to give you an idea why I asked the question. [newspaper clipping: "Fugitive murder convict's unlucky number called . . . Partlow was caught on a Friday the 13th by 13 sheriff's deputies . . . He'd been on the run for 13 years."] The reporter wasn't aware I went on trial in my 13th month in jail, or that my trial lasted 13 days, or the jury had 13 members (one was replaced).

At the time of this writing, I have three five-years-to-life sentences plus one one-to-14-years, all running consecutively. But these will, by law, be changed to nine years, and I did get the four years, so I'm on a roll of 13's.

Patiently,

Gary Partlow

#H-15966

Tracy, Calif.

Dear Gary:

I would say that, when you add up all those numbers together, it does not look too good for your team.

Joe Bob--

I am one who really does remember Lenny Bruce. (Never met him but have a postcard from him somewhere.) I followed him since his first Steve Allen performance, bought his records, bought monthly issues of "Rogue" with his one-page columns (even though I was underage and there were better skin magazines), read "How To Talk Dirty and Influence People" when it was serialized in "Playboy" years before the book was published. In a page and a half, you did the best summing up of him I've read, better than any of Paul Krassner's numerous articles after Bruce's death. My deepest appreciation.

Thanks,

Allen Pasternak

Houston, Tex.

Dear Allen:

Best of all, Lenny STILL has the ability to make people mad.

Dear Joe Bob:

I consistently enjoy your ramblings and insights and share your enthusiasm in the fight to uphold and preserve immortal abuses of filmmaking along with the almost long forgotten drive-in concept where so many of these films were used to entertain between car-hopping, fights (unfortunately), barbecuing and general partying. My teenage years were in St. Louis and up until the mid-seventies there were many fine drive-in theaters. I think there are only a few now.

I have interest in films of many types, but low-budget ones have a special place in my, uh, heart especially when they are done right (which might be someone else's wrong). Close-up detailed gore doesn't do much for me, but fun is fun. I'd rather watch a flick with a nutty impossible scenario that is loaded with women that are real easy on the eyes. I like the ones that are slim and have a pretty face yet anchored with more than their share of breast tissue. Some former Playboy girls fit the bill nicely, thank you. Hope Carlton is nice, though I wish she just had a few more inches on top. Roberta Vasguez is fine, but she does not know what to do in front of the camera. I recently saw on cable a bad (and not good) film with these two along with another Playboy girl named Devin something or other, Erik Estrada, Dona Speir, etc., and the film was simply too bad for me (not enough action, intrigue, breasts, behinds, general nastiness), but there was a really fine looking chassis that had a super pair of high-beam headlights. Who is this lady and can she be seen in anything of appropriate sleaze? You might now have a decent idea of the looks I like the girls to generally have and if you don't mind putting a little brainpower into making me a list of some better "pick-sures" I should try to run down I would appreciate it.

Regards,

Greg Pawelko

San Francisco

Dear Greg:

If I'm not mistaken, you were watching an Andy Sidaris flick called "Hard Hunted," and the gal with the high-beam headlights is none other than the legendary Ava Cadell. Since all of Andy's movies get mixed up in my head, I could be totally wrong.

Hey Joe Bob:

Just returned from the Berkeley local Whole Foods Market where I had gone to get some cracked rye. Weird place Whole Foods! I know these stores began in Texas, so you can't put the blame on Berkeley. Maybe Houston is the Berkeley of Texas. While searching for my rye the public address system called for the resident relaxation massage therapist. There I was standing in the check-out line behind this attractive woman in her late twenties to early thirties wondering how to introduce myself. As is often the case I looked at what she was purchasing, hoping for some "opener," and saw a book entitled "The Healthy Colon Book" and a bottle of Intestinal Bulker (maybe it should be spelled bilker). Sigh! I guess if I had been into giving/getting enemas I would have had something to say. I was struck speechless as my imagination ran wild, picturing this Patchouli-smelling woman in all sorts of interesting positions while being given an enema. I wanted to get to the public address system and make an announcement calling for the resident colonic irrigationist. Three stars! Check it out!

Liked your article entitled "A Question of Rules" and look forward to the fun it engenders when I share it with my "fellow" teachers. I need to write a large poster or maybe make a music video on the rules of my class. It begins:

Rule 1: Read the f---ing assignments. It's good to know I have something to look forward to when I reach 60.

Monroe Pastermack

Oakland, Calif.

Dear Monroe:

Don't write me any more letters containing the words "bulk," "colon," "enema," or--worst of all--"irrigation."

I don't wanna have to tell you this again.

Dear Joe Bob:

Update from the astral realm! Would you believe that Henry Ross was my papa in a past life? And to think that I thought that I must have borrowed a grand and made my millions through simple intelligence, creative genius and great looks! Quel revelation! Papa Perot left me a couple of "mil," one or two lives ago! Oh well, the green astral flow makes a nice cushion to lounge around on while dipping strawberries, sipping Boone's Farm and effortlessly penning the poetry, fiction and articles that my ever-present muse whispers softly in my ear. I could, after all, be one of the creative "little people" who slaves over a PC, whipped by a relentless muse . . . or worse, an ever-absent muse.

You know, Daddy P. has been a billionaire in all his past lives, even the one in which he was CEO of the universe. These lives were spent honing that laid-back-down-home-fox-in-the-hen-house ambition. Papa P. just doesn't handle advice with much tolerance--it's his way, or no way. Take, for instance, the attempted educational reform "program" right here in Texas. I warned him that it would result in a meaningless, money-gobbling mountain of bureaucracy, and would, at best, produce an assembly line of little robotic test-takers. "Life is the BIG test," he told me (one of his profound little sound bites). "Proficient little test-takers are the future of America!" You don't argue with Papa P. He just spins those homespun sound bites spiraling down through the ages. Old billionaires never die or fade away. They just grow richer and more powerful as their egos evolve through time.

So far, there's been no memory of connection to George or Barbara. Interestingly enough, however, Millie and my dog Rusty had an astral run-in once. Oh, and Rust wrote a book in one of his past lives. It topped Millie's in both sales and number of weeks on the best seller list.

About professional mourners and their cheerleaders. Joe Bob--what astral plane have you been hanging out on? This is the take-no-responsibility-blame-it-on-anyone-or-anything-else age we're drifting through! "Accountability" is an obsolete concept. Mourning, blaming and bitching have been elevated to an art form, which, naturally, spawned a mutant subspecies of cheerleaders and s----stirrers. A little dab of Donahue, an ounce of Oprah, a healthy smear of Geraldo, then allow to simmer while flipping to C-Span. Notice much difference in the smell of the brew? Joe Bob, it's a mutant genre of drive-in network and cable TV. I'll take "I Spit on Your Grave" any day! (First and best women's lib revenge flick!)

I wouldn't presume to answer your question in writing! Just think real hard and you'll know how "old souls," coupling on the astral plane, feel about earthbound institutions such as marriage, divorce, affairs, etc. I'm sure I'll encounter you up there on 12 before long. It's my favorite hang-out. Can't promise when, though. I only go through my telepathic room keys once a week--too time consuming.

Pam Patterson

San Antonio, Tex.

Dear Pam:

If you see Ross up there in the clouds, tell him his act's getting old. I would suggest he move up from Bartlett's Quotations and Reader's Digest Condensed Books to the real Super Bowl of sound bites. Get some Hollywood sitcom gag writers.

I know he can afford it, too.

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