Forget high-brow culture- this is pure Americana teenage angst, dust, dents, bondo, and drive in pregnancy thrills...
I'm gonna pay someone $20 to sock me in the nose hard and $10 to kick me in the groin even harder (groin kicks are almost a dime a dozen- trust me on this), slip off a bit to douse my throat with a few home-mix margaritas made with Mr. & Mrs. T's, slick my hands with brake fluid and axle grease and transmission fluid, grab a greasy corn dog, a foot-long Marathon Bar, some Candy Root Beer Bottle-Caps and Fruit Razzles, a fistfull of tooth-rot Pixie Stix and a bucket of undercooked, over-buttered, greasy gum-damaging popcorn, and see this utterly trashy treat of Tarantino, this really Raucus Raunch of Rodriguez...
And enjoy it more than I enjoyed the aching, the itch and strain of puberty itself!
I remember in 1973 seeing Clockwork Orange in the backseat of a Mercury Cougar while my godfather tamed a "Cougar" with his mastery of the horizontal bop and his expert wielding of his meat baton in the squeaky vinyl olive green front bench seat of said Mercury cougar, with his recent 17 years and 11-months old hireee employee hairdresser, still smelling of a thick tacky film of Aquanet and industrial perm solution from her first day's work as a "happy hairderesser", earning her first week's rent away from mom and daddy...
And I remember in 1976 seeing Star Wars in a 66' Mustang, where the youngest member of the group that night dropped a slice of pizza on the sun-bleached pale dull pink hood, leaving a shiny scarlet oily triangle imbeded i the dulled flakey powdery paint to forever cement the memory of the night I saw Mark Hamill playing a young piss-pants boychild to the stud-muffin of the sex-in-a-leather-vest, carpenter-by-day-trade of Harrison Ford, who's knowledge of tenpenny nails was once proven on national TV live in front of Johnny Carson, and who's manhood musta been legendary, probably hooked and barbed like a tiger's phallus.
So, I hope Tarantino can pull off this attempt of a true roadhouse-style drive-in theater experience of the 70's, and match those thrills I experienced in the run-down drive-ins across the east coast, with their heaving rolling parking lots and aluminum housed pole-mounted speaker boxes, that you know, tore off the windows of numerous LeMans and Chevelles over the years when the pre-occupied driver hit the "hang ten" gas pedal cover on the floor...
I expect to come back from this flick with a nosebleed, a scab or two, an itchy scalp, sticky hair, the secret to how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop, Cracker-Jack flakes in my feathered bangs, a round tear in the knee of my Toughskins (but no damage to my knee flesh- thank lord for that double material!), Ju-jy-Fruits glued to my molars, popcorn Grease Stains on my randy "Who's a Pepper?" ringer T-shirt, and a Day-Glo Phillips 66 gas station condom stuck to my Pro-Keds...
Anything less, and I'll ask for my money back, and rent the double feature of "Girl on a Motorcycle" and "Two Lane Blacktop", some Brubaker, and use the rest to buy an oregano and reefer hand-rolled cigarette...