When it comes to paragons of ’80s militarism who refuse to die, John Rambo is giving John McCain a serious run for his PoliGrip. Not only is the Stallone creation the subject of the indie homage Son of Rambow (see First Shot, page 25), but his entire oeuvre is weeks away from being reissued on DVD. In the interim, we’re getting a theatrical booking of First Blood, the veterans’ revenge fantasy that started it all. Augmenting the hi-def presentation will be some behind-the-scenes “making of” material and an alternate ending that, according to the PR sheet, “could have changed Rambo’s theatrical history forever.” WARNING: A synopsis on the event’s official webpage spoils the whole surprise, so cover your eyes while you order your tickets.

Burp! No, that’s not gas, it’s the famous airtight “Tupperware burp” (since redubbed the more genteel “Tupperware whisper”). Whatever sound your plastic fridge containers make, it’s nowhere near the racket that ensued during the bitter battle for control of the Tupperware company back in 1950s Orlando. WESH-TV reporter and local historian Bob Kealing (Kerouac in Florida) peels back the lid on the rise and fall of Brownie Wise, the pioneering businesswoman who created a system by which housewives could forge their own (paying) careers: in-home sales. Tupperware Unsealed is a Peyton Place–style potboiler of alcoholic stalkers, eccentric millionaires and swinging parties. Well, swinging Tupperware parties, anyway.

Hailed as the “knock-kneed misshapen misanthrope of rock,” Costello burst on the scene alongside punk, looking like Buddy Holly in his black-framed glasses. His caustic wit and clever turns of phrase (“Your mouth is made up but your mind is undone”) were backed by the Attractions, highlighted by Steve Nieve’s pulsing keyboards. They veered from the R&B of Get Happy!! to Imperial Bedroom’s baroque rock, all given their unique spin. Costello eventually split with the Attractions and spent the late ’80s and ’90s collaborating (McCartney, Bacharach, Brodsky Quartet) on a series of mediocre albums. It wasn’t until Costello was joined by the Imposters (the Attractions minus bassist Bruce Thomas) for When I Was Cruel in 2002 that he regained his creative footing. He followed it with a series of fine albums, including 2004’s raw, bluesy The Delivery Man, and his rootsy Katrina-inspired collaboration with Allen Toussaint, The River in Reverse.

Not for nothing did guitarist Ace Frehley once front an outfit named Frehley’s Comet. Whenever he’s set free from the KISS regimen, his appearances are about as common as Kohoutek’s. Rarer still is the spectacle the Spaceman is treating fans to on his current tour: a fully nimble fretboard astronaut finally living up to his patented “on the wagon” rap. He may look like Tommy Chong these days, but everybody’s favorite Tommy Thayer impersonator appears to have pulled himself back from the brink of rock & roll casualty to deliver a set rife with KISS classics and ’80s solo tracks. Just don’t expect anything from the forthcoming fifth Frehley disc, which has been “just about done” for nearly two decades.

Though we’ve written about it aplenty, we’d be remiss if we didn’t once again alert you to the locally grown bizarreness that is the Grandma Party Bazaar. The fifth not-so-annual (more like whenever they feel like it) event promises free bicycle tuneups, personalized songs written and recorded while you wait, handmade jewelry and clothing from local designers, vintage stuff, original artwork, massage therapy, live music and dance performances – even a rummage pile, for which donations are welcomed. Plus, organizer Casey Szot will raffle off donated goods to support Engineers Without Borders. This indie-riffic conglomeration of hot pants and hand-painted sneakers, DIY mavens and postmodern hippies never fails to draw a crowd. The Stardust front lot gets jammed with vendors and performers, making parking spots scarce, so heed the flier and ride a bike.

It’s easy to imagine today’s Duran Duran – some 30 years on in their long yacht ride through sex metaphoria (unions, snakes) and tabloid excess (they literally eat supermodels) – as a kind of cherry-shaped commodity handily dipped in the moment’s flavor every three years or so. But recontextualization has never suited Duran (Armani, however, has) and even if their latest offering, Red Carpet Massacre, may have suffered the Timbaland/Timberlake collaboration curse sales-wise, it remains a testament to the band’s legend of aesthetic tourism. That’s their trick: At the core of every time-sensitive sonic endeavor – be it house music, hip-hop, anthem-pop or funk – is the essence of an ambition that is uniquely Duran Duran: a throbbing bass, a booming drum, sparkly Nick Rhodes bits and a primordial howl from Simon LeBon. Their live show is better than the best sex that Princess Diana never had. There’s even an unthinkable electro Kraftwerk tribute. You. Must. Go.

Named top DJ in last year’s annual DJ Mag poll, van Buuren has finally escaped the shadow of fellow countryman Tiësto. The Dutch trance artist saw his first success a dozen years ago, when “Blue Fear” was picked up for Sasha and Digweed’s second Northern Exposure compilation when he was only 19 years old. The hits continued with the mildly medieval baroque “Communication” and the rumbling Tiësto collab “Eternity.” Van Buuren is supporting last month’s release, Imagine, his third proper album. While still deeply in thrall to oversized, block-rocking beats and oceanic keyboard washes, the arrangements have more plot and flow than typical dance-floor fare. Indeed, the entire album shimmies and slides with purpose, unlike the sine-wave peaks and valleys of more pedestrian trance.