My complaints mostly come out at night. Mostly.

Wolf Man and Frankenstein. King Kong and Godzilla. Jason and Freddy. There are some people that, if put in a room together, just can’t seem to hold hands and get along.

Case in point: Alien and Predator, the Tom and Jerry of the extraterrestrial set, continue their fight on Earth in Aliens vs. Predator: Requiem. For those looking for a little Alien on Predator action to spice up their Saturday night, I would very much like to recommend the sequel to 2004’s Alien vs. Predator. In fact, I would love nothing more than to recommend the film, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I would feel too dirty.

Like a fool, I had high expectations to the second film that would attempt to combine two of my favorite franchises. After Peanut Butter and Jelly: The Motion Picture, there have never been two icons better suited for a crossover movie then Xenomorphs (Aliens for those not in the know) and Predators. Even though the first film was a failure, the idea behind it was still solid. Surely, I thought, Requiem couldn’t be as disappointing a film as Paul W.S. Anderson’s initial offering.

Anderson’s film had been like going on a date with a really hot girl from school, discovering that inside her pretty little head was nothing more then cotton candy and asbestos, excusing yourself in the middle of the date to go the restroom with the intent of ditching her only to be captured by pirates and sold as a slave to space monkeys.

Requiem, on the other hand, is like escaping from space monkey slavery only to find yourself performing a non-paid internship as a flight attendant on Space Lord Xenu’s galactic Douglas DC-8 — a real frying pan into the thetan-fueled fire scenario.

It’s hard to put my finger on just what was so disappointing about Requiem. I really would need to use several fingers. Maybe even a thumb. Cookie-cutter characters that would fail to register sympathy from a priest bounced off of a paper-thin plot that did the Macarena over all the rules and logic that had been established by the previous films in the franchises.

A lackluster ending was just the rotten cherry on the ice cream sundae for this lactose-intolerant movie fan. The film, in the end, served as a requiem for any dream I may have had for a quality Alien vs. Predator film.

But, like a Lifetime channel original movie character, I will keep returning to the lover that continuously dishes out pain. Even though I should have learned better by now, I will be first in line for tickets to Aliens vs. Predator 3: In Space, No One Can Here You Complain.

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The iPhone of Cops.

Lately there has been a glut of superhero movies hitting the big screen. It’s hard to swing a dead cat without hitting a comic book fanatic who is eagerly awaiting the big screen debut of a favorite four-color hero. The ’80s, though, were a different time. In a decade known for excess, comic book fans faced a clear drought of superhero movies.

All was not bleak, though. A select few films burned brightly in the night sky like a Batsignal, heralding the arrival of a new breed of hero. Most of them didn’t even wear masks. Heroes like John McClane or Martin Riggs understood what it took to fight the war on both drugs and evil Europeans alike.

One hero, though, stood out from the rest. This was a hero that knew sometimes the only way to stop a bad guy was to dip him in acid and run over him with a car. This hero, of course, was part man, part machine and all cop.

A movie very much of its time, 1987′s RoboCop combined explosions and satire in the story of a Detroit cop, Murphy, who is gunned down. In a scene that seemed to go on forever, Murphy is shot several hundred times by automatic weapons and even has an arm blown off with a shotgun. Instead of dying, though, his mangled body is repurposed as the fleshy nougat in a new crunchy cyborg shell. Murphy was sent to the streets as the iPhone of law enforcement officers.

A hit among audiences, RoboCop took aim at the money-hungry schemes of a Reagan-centric government. In a world of constant advertising and overblown hype, RoboCop’s biggest enemy was the society which created him. His technology was constantly being thwarted by the next big advancement in police cybernetics.

Every movie has a life lesson and “RoboCop” is no exception. If there is one thing that audiences should take away from Murphy’s harrowing struggle to reclaim his humanity, it’s to be wary of too much technology. Sure, having a new cell phone that can send texts, take pictures, play movies and act as a wingman when out clubbing would be a nice feather in your cap, but is it worth it in the end?

The popular Bluetooth headphone pieces are already ushering in a new wave of chatty cyborgs — all marching toward a post-apocalyptic future where robots rule the world. With a tiny bit of tech stored in their ears, these robo-talkers are one memory implant away from helping SkyNet win their war against John Conner. Next time you decide to take an afternoon off work so you can wait in line for your new piece of iTech, remember the plight of Murphy.

Is your humanity worth whatever toys Steve Jobs throws at us?

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Time travel is a one-way ticket to misery.

Without a doubt, it would be awesome to be able to visit the past  — not to witness historic events (that’s what movies are for) but to alter my own history.

Personally, I’d not only give my left nut, I’d give society’s collective left nut for the chance to hop in a DeLorean and jet off to my childhood — lending some of that hindsight 20/20 vision to Lil’ Robert and ensuring that all the mistakes that haunt my past would never be made.

On the other hand, science fiction authors and hack screenwriters have shown us time and time again that messing with time travel never ends well.

Judging from what fiction has taught us (and we should always listen to what fiction teaches us), God is on a constant crusade to punish time travelers with bad karma.

If the day comes where I somehow invent time travel — well … let’s face it, I’m never going to invent time travel. I’m neither scientifically inclined nor highly motivated.

If the day comes where I stumble upon the chance to steal some scientist’s time machine and I hop back to the seventh grade and manage to impart all my life lessons and words of warning to the younger version of me — helping him to gain the self-confidence I lacked at that age and win that date with the girl of our dreams (pesky run-on sentence … hold on, I need to catch my breath … okay, all better) — If I did all that, God would probably hit him/me with a train during his/my date — a date that I never experienced or ever will because when past-me dies, present-me ceases to be as well. So sayth the book of Frequency.

Thus, God doesn’t like time travelers.

It’s not like I would go back in time to hurt anybody. I don’t want to exact revenge on my playground foes (not yet, at least) and I don’t have any real desire to cheat at the stock market (authorities would get too suspicious if seventh grade-me started to make a killing on Wall Street and everybody knows the real way to make money off time travel is to bet on sports like in Back to the Future Part II).

No, I just want to make a better life for myself. Isn’t that the American dream?

Technology is constantly catching up with the American Dream. 200 years ago, immigrants would travel in boats to America, the so-called “New World,” for a fresh beginning.

Today, Americans fly in planes to Canada for a fresh beginning and free healthcare.

Tomorrow, I’ll use a time machine to be an immigrant of the future.

I want to travel to the “Old World” for a fresh middle.

I would tell Lil’ Robert not to let his Mom bye his clothing – because Looney Toons characters most assuredly do not belong on the shirts of middle school boys.

I would tell him that he should ask out the girl he’s been crushing on because a year later, she’ll be forever out of his reach.

I’d tell him to stop wearing such tight jeans because very soon he’s going to experience a very embarrassing moment that involves his pants ripping.

On a similar note, I’d tell him that he should always wear clean underwear.

I’d tell him that soda pop is fun and tasty, but if you drink too much of it, you are going to have to pause and catch your breath during run-on sentences in the future.

I’d warn him against getting into a fight with his best friend over something trivial because he won’t want to spend the next four years not hanging out with him.

I’d tell him not to waste so much money on trading cards and action figures because in five years time, he’ll be tired of them and will throw them away.

I’d tell him that despite what he thinks, the way to win girls’ hearts isn’t through quoting “Weird Al” Yankovic lyrics or showing her how he can fit a whole apple into his mouth.

I’d tell him not to listen too much to what that jerk who sits behind him in math class says. In six years, he’ll be rotting in jail. I’d also warn him against being such a jerk himself. Nobody wants to be remembered as the class bully.

I’d tell him to check our priorities. Be nicer to the classmates who will remain friends with you for the rest of your life and don’t bother trying to win the approval of the jerks who are just using you for the then and there.

I know that I can never go back in time and do all these things.

God would kill me like he killed Bruce Willis in 12 Monkeys.

Instead, I’ll have to settle for the next best thing to time travel: becoming a father and living vicariously through the lives of my future kids.

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