They called me a lunatic. They said I was a fool, but I was there I tell ya. They said "look at the crazy old bum." Well, I might be a little eccentric, but I ain't crazy.
Y'see, these kids lived down in the junkyard that fat fuck ran. They had a sweet setup - a bit hard to believe how clever that setup was - but I guess them Gilligan's Island people did some crazy, ingenious shit too. These kids are real connivers, scamps. They eke out an existence by themselves cause their folks went crazy.
Older bro Fred, see he's a wildcat - fuckin' round with the local homeless; stealin', scammin', whatever floats his boat. But the younger kid Kevin, he ain't so good at it, so his older bro gets down on him. The little kid also hangs with this cute Asian chick (She got a crush on him, so I hear. Can't imagine how that works him bein' all filthy and whatnot) that's employed by the junkyard.
Across the fence though, is this wack-job Bronson - a real Vietnam headcase who runs the bum show. They let him push 'em around cause he's meaner than a cock-punched wolverine (he scared the shit outta me, lemme tell 'ya). He's got lieutenants like Wizzy; all nasty nutjob drunks. Don't blame 'em neither.
So this fat fuck Ed who runs the cheapie liquor store finds this crate of shit - Tenafly Viper - in his basement. Shit's gotta be 60 fuckin' years old. He sells it cheap. The real trouble starts when Fred pinches a bottle of it.
Turns out the shit's toxic (thought things got better with age, guess not cheap-jack liquor). Fred's bottle gets swiped by Paulie, one of Bronson's charges. He hides out on this old toilet, and from what I heard he just melts into this multicolored goo. Messed up shit!
From there, everything goes to shit. We got a he-man cop rovin' the streets, lookin' to put the squeeze on Bronson. Crazy mobsters and their drunken girlfriends runnin' around the place. Hell, some poor SOB even gets his John Hancock lopped off, and the nasty assholes play fuckin' keep away. Can you believe it!
I tell you, it may not be the most coherent shit I ever heard, but it sure is a crazy time. I wouldn't believed it if I ain't seen it with my own eyes. It's a gruesome spectacle, but one that I'll never forget. Swear to Holy Christ, if they ever made a movie about it, I'd probably watch it. Although I can't imagine it would make much sense, but I bet they'd get good special effects an' hopefully cast actors that don't suck at all.
I ain't yankin' your chain. It's all the Goddamn truth. I was there to see it. Not a bad little story, eh. Now, how about it bud, can you spare some change?
Friday, December 12, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
I inquire, I respond.
What was the most frustrating moment in your life (or embarrassing if you don’t mind divulging anonymously to strangers)?
Getting a DWI test across the street from the liquor store was pretty embarrassing (I was sober).
If you were a color, what color would you be? Why?
Navy blue or twilight - so I could blend in with the night when I stood by open water.
What has been the most influential object in your life?
My stereo.
What would be on the soundtrack to your life (5 songs with band)?
Concrete Jungle (The Specials). Tools of the Trade (Carcass). State of Fear (State of Fear). Seaweed (The Gits). Kinda Blue (Miles Davis).
How do you react to authority when cornered?
Begrudging respect or moderate annoyance is my typical response (depending on who said authority is).
If you had to die in a malevolent fashion (i.e.) murder, violent accident, natural disaster, etc.), how would you choose to go?
Nuked!
What movie have you seen the most often?
Ghostbusters.
Do you carry a defensive weapon (if yes, what is it?)?
I have a hammer in my car.
If you could have any useful device cybernetically implanted, what would it be and why?
I'd rather not be a cyborg.
Would you be a tornado chaser?
Unquestionably - hells yeah!
Do you have a nemesis (a nemesis being someone close to you, but in competition with you) and/or do you have an arch-fiend (being someone who hates and wants to fucking destroy you)?
I don't really have a nemesis, except life at times. My arch enemy is Marcus Nispel (for that awful Texas Chain Saw remake), although he may redeem himself with the Friday remake. Remains to be seen.
Getting a DWI test across the street from the liquor store was pretty embarrassing (I was sober).
If you were a color, what color would you be? Why?
Navy blue or twilight - so I could blend in with the night when I stood by open water.
What has been the most influential object in your life?
My stereo.
What would be on the soundtrack to your life (5 songs with band)?
Concrete Jungle (The Specials). Tools of the Trade (Carcass). State of Fear (State of Fear). Seaweed (The Gits). Kinda Blue (Miles Davis).
How do you react to authority when cornered?
Begrudging respect or moderate annoyance is my typical response (depending on who said authority is).
If you had to die in a malevolent fashion (i.e.) murder, violent accident, natural disaster, etc.), how would you choose to go?
Nuked!
What movie have you seen the most often?
Ghostbusters.
Do you carry a defensive weapon (if yes, what is it?)?
I have a hammer in my car.
If you could have any useful device cybernetically implanted, what would it be and why?
I'd rather not be a cyborg.
Would you be a tornado chaser?
Unquestionably - hells yeah!
Do you have a nemesis (a nemesis being someone close to you, but in competition with you) and/or do you have an arch-fiend (being someone who hates and wants to fucking destroy you)?
I don't really have a nemesis, except life at times. My arch enemy is Marcus Nispel (for that awful Texas Chain Saw remake), although he may redeem himself with the Friday remake. Remains to be seen.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
But it goes up to 11 [part 1].
From time to time, I dream up a smattering of questions that, while in all probability irrelevant to the world in which we live, still serve as an amusing distraction. If you (like me, obviously) have nothing better to do, feel free to take a few minutes out and indulge the questions. If you want more time to ponder, feel free to copy and paste the little fuckers. If your really bored, you can even send me the answers (in the form of a comment). Once again, anonymity, if desired, won't be a problem. I'll post my answers the following day as well
[Please answer as in depth, yet succinctly as possible.]
What was the most frustrating moment in your life (or embarrassing if you don’t mind divulging anonymously to strangers)?
If you were a color, what color would you be? Why?
What has been the most influential object in your life?
What would be on the soundtrack to your life (5 songs with band)?
How do you react to authority when cornered?
If you had to die in a malevolent fashion (i.e.) murder, violent accident, natural disaster, etc.), how would you choose to go?
What movie have you seen the most often?
Do you carry a defensive weapon (if yes, what is it?)?
If you could have any useful device cybernetically implanted, what would it be and why?
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Grand Guignol and the Art of Canned Ham (Theater of Blood)
"Can you imagine it?"
"Imagine what?" she said looking coy.
"Ok, you like a good horror flick, right?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Does the pope wear a stupid hat?"
"Depends on your perspective, I suppose. But if I were to grossly generalize your average horror film - emphasis on average - tends to be a touch underdone, right?"
"And that's a bad thing?" she shrugged.
"Also perspective dependent."
"Touche."
"And depending on what you consider low-brow, if you consider it to be bad, per se -"
"Quit being so goddamn middle of the road."
"Ok. But for the sake or argument, let's take your average viewer. Movies with a gore quotient (say on the Gore Score levels) above five, tend to be shafted in favor of psychological or "scary" films.
"I suppose your average Jane Six-pack (sic), when faced with a double feature option of Evil Dead and The Haunting would prefer The Haunting, probably."
"What if there were movies that had both high art and solid sanguinary spills?"
"I'd say it was made in the seventies in all likelihood."
"Correct you are. It's called Theater of Blood. It's a movie that takes a solid list of ingredients: good cast (Vincent Price, Diana Rigg, Ian Hendry, etc.), an amusing script and clever direction - plus a tongue well tucked into cheek - and utilizes them for an optimum cinematic effect.
"Spill it," she winked.
"Well, everyone knows the dichotomy of artist and critic; it's a love-hate sort of thing. Of course, the people who hate critics more than any other are the artists, writers, directors, etc. who find their work constantly defiled by wretched reviews.
"In seventies England, no one suffers the wrath of the critics more than Edward Lionheart. His Shakespearean company is drug over hot coals and razor wire by the entire Critics Circle - the poshest of the posh critics. When he loses their coveted Critics Choice award to a 'neophyte,' he can no longer bear it, and lavishes the critics with a hammy rendition of Hamlet before plunging off their penthouse balcony to his death."
"Brutal."
"Indeed. Sometime later, members of the Circle begin to die in horrible fashions. Their deaths are inspired by the gory demises fashioned by Shakespeare himself. Of course, everyone would suspect Lionheart, save the buffering factor of his own corporeal end."
"So did you just pull spoiler on me, or is it a punch-less who-done-it?"
"Oh, it's no mystery. Now I admit, this film does have a few flaws - such as the fact that no one bothered to look into Lionheart's demise more thoroughly. Also, his ability to escape from dramatic assaults takes some suspension of disbelief. Although they do manage to eschew much of it to his mad brilliance. Of course, the biggest curiosity - not a technical one anyhow - is how a man of such charismatic intelligence manages not to realize that he's a corny, scene-chewer of epic proportions."
"You know men and their egotistical pride."
"So there are some flaws, a couple of plot holes, but -"
"But..."
"Put it this way, the film's pluses distinctly outweigh its negatives."
"Such as?"
"Well, I already mentioned the stellar acting. Diana Rigg (Emma Peel from the Avengers) is ravishing and her acting is subtle, yet lush - at times. Handry and a cast of veteran thesps. also provide solid and fascinating characters, between the haute couture Circle and the befuddled police.
"But the true feast is our consummate chiller actor Mr. Price. Its a perfect role for a man of his ability and he takes the ham-sandwich and transforms it into gourmet fare. Of course all ready known for chewing the occasional scene (brilliantly!) he becomes the maw of a black hole - enveloping our attention.
"In addition to thespic glory, it has superb set design and the set pieces abound with sublime Shakespearean menace. And does the stage ever run red. We have surgically severed heads, impalings and the odd electrocution - all wickedly executed.
"Director Douglas Hickcox knows how to pace a film as well. The veteran auteur sets up solid camera angles and framing to create proper menace and spectacle. Writer Anthony Greville-Bell's gallows humor plays well off the pomposity of the major characters and also the suspenseful under- and overtones. They really pull off a genuinely entertaining story on top of everything else.
"Plus, I'll never forget the disgusted looks Lionheart shoots his assistant during the bedroom surgery. Classic!"
She looked at me with piqued interest.
"If I didn't know any better, I would have thought you were reviewing it."
"Yeah I suppose so."
"Sounds like a hell of a horror-comedy, though. And I don't use that combination lightly. Where can I find it?"
"It's out on DVD (MGM's Midnight Movies imprint - some impressive films, thoroughly unimpressive features). Shouldn't be to hard to find. But, since you're my friend, I'll lend you my copy."
"Thank you kindly, I look forward to the massacre."
"As well you ought to."
"Imagine what?" she said looking coy.
"Ok, you like a good horror flick, right?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Does the pope wear a stupid hat?"
"Depends on your perspective, I suppose. But if I were to grossly generalize your average horror film - emphasis on average - tends to be a touch underdone, right?"
"And that's a bad thing?" she shrugged.
"Also perspective dependent."
"Touche."
"And depending on what you consider low-brow, if you consider it to be bad, per se -"
"Quit being so goddamn middle of the road."
"Ok. But for the sake or argument, let's take your average viewer. Movies with a gore quotient (say on the Gore Score levels) above five, tend to be shafted in favor of psychological or "scary" films.
"I suppose your average Jane Six-pack (sic), when faced with a double feature option of Evil Dead and The Haunting would prefer The Haunting, probably."
"What if there were movies that had both high art and solid sanguinary spills?"
"I'd say it was made in the seventies in all likelihood."
"Correct you are. It's called Theater of Blood. It's a movie that takes a solid list of ingredients: good cast (Vincent Price, Diana Rigg, Ian Hendry, etc.), an amusing script and clever direction - plus a tongue well tucked into cheek - and utilizes them for an optimum cinematic effect.
"Spill it," she winked.
"Well, everyone knows the dichotomy of artist and critic; it's a love-hate sort of thing. Of course, the people who hate critics more than any other are the artists, writers, directors, etc. who find their work constantly defiled by wretched reviews.
"In seventies England, no one suffers the wrath of the critics more than Edward Lionheart. His Shakespearean company is drug over hot coals and razor wire by the entire Critics Circle - the poshest of the posh critics. When he loses their coveted Critics Choice award to a 'neophyte,' he can no longer bear it, and lavishes the critics with a hammy rendition of Hamlet before plunging off their penthouse balcony to his death."
"Brutal."
"Indeed. Sometime later, members of the Circle begin to die in horrible fashions. Their deaths are inspired by the gory demises fashioned by Shakespeare himself. Of course, everyone would suspect Lionheart, save the buffering factor of his own corporeal end."
"So did you just pull spoiler on me, or is it a punch-less who-done-it?"
"Oh, it's no mystery. Now I admit, this film does have a few flaws - such as the fact that no one bothered to look into Lionheart's demise more thoroughly. Also, his ability to escape from dramatic assaults takes some suspension of disbelief. Although they do manage to eschew much of it to his mad brilliance. Of course, the biggest curiosity - not a technical one anyhow - is how a man of such charismatic intelligence manages not to realize that he's a corny, scene-chewer of epic proportions."
"You know men and their egotistical pride."
"So there are some flaws, a couple of plot holes, but -"
"But..."
"Put it this way, the film's pluses distinctly outweigh its negatives."
"Such as?"
"Well, I already mentioned the stellar acting. Diana Rigg (Emma Peel from the Avengers) is ravishing and her acting is subtle, yet lush - at times. Handry and a cast of veteran thesps. also provide solid and fascinating characters, between the haute couture Circle and the befuddled police.
"But the true feast is our consummate chiller actor Mr. Price. Its a perfect role for a man of his ability and he takes the ham-sandwich and transforms it into gourmet fare. Of course all ready known for chewing the occasional scene (brilliantly!) he becomes the maw of a black hole - enveloping our attention.
"In addition to thespic glory, it has superb set design and the set pieces abound with sublime Shakespearean menace. And does the stage ever run red. We have surgically severed heads, impalings and the odd electrocution - all wickedly executed.
"Director Douglas Hickcox knows how to pace a film as well. The veteran auteur sets up solid camera angles and framing to create proper menace and spectacle. Writer Anthony Greville-Bell's gallows humor plays well off the pomposity of the major characters and also the suspenseful under- and overtones. They really pull off a genuinely entertaining story on top of everything else.
"Plus, I'll never forget the disgusted looks Lionheart shoots his assistant during the bedroom surgery. Classic!"
She looked at me with piqued interest.
"If I didn't know any better, I would have thought you were reviewing it."
"Yeah I suppose so."
"Sounds like a hell of a horror-comedy, though. And I don't use that combination lightly. Where can I find it?"
"It's out on DVD (MGM's Midnight Movies imprint - some impressive films, thoroughly unimpressive features). Shouldn't be to hard to find. But, since you're my friend, I'll lend you my copy."
"Thank you kindly, I look forward to the massacre."
"As well you ought to."
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Skulking Weather
When the lights dim in dismal fuzz
Fog slithers past the daylight
moist euphoria on my skin
Dusk's clam opens my flesh
up. Rivers of adrenaline flush me
I trip on a root and laughter echoes across
the willing sky.
As I tumble across hollow schisms that rend the earth
The sky alights night with beautiful crackles
that shimmy across the invisible stars. I stutter
as my feet tremble with quick diatribes to
night's hollow footsteps as they
blot earth with their ink.
The slippery dark clots me with hollow ephemeral bliss
and I cry out
in joy
to mother's blanketed countenance.
I sink into a blissful stupor
as my eyes adjust - twinkling in the haze
as my brain bisects itself, tendrils stretching across the
peaceful, misty void.
Fog slithers past the daylight
moist euphoria on my skin
Dusk's clam opens my flesh
up. Rivers of adrenaline flush me
I trip on a root and laughter echoes across
the willing sky.
As I tumble across hollow schisms that rend the earth
The sky alights night with beautiful crackles
that shimmy across the invisible stars. I stutter
as my feet tremble with quick diatribes to
night's hollow footsteps as they
blot earth with their ink.
The slippery dark clots me with hollow ephemeral bliss
and I cry out
in joy
to mother's blanketed countenance.
I sink into a blissful stupor
as my eyes adjust - twinkling in the haze
as my brain bisects itself, tendrils stretching across the
peaceful, misty void.
punk rock love
Imagination is boundless - and (supposedly) love knows no bounds (mi amigos amore - bueno) passion is a shapeless void in the construct of humanity (seriously, I'm really trying not to be completely obtuse and hyper art-fag, but I may have failed). But, for reals, this is raw human emotion - I can't make this shit up.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Lucky Rabbit
I found a rabbit the other day, outside my house. I thought of its head: body crushed by a truck or car. Life is a futile chess game, missing everything save the pawns. The poor thing looked up at me with its hazy, unpasted peeper, from of its pile of pasta sauce and fur, at a moaning, gray sky and it was pissed!
I saw it’s severed, mashed dome screaming through the cosmos like shrapnel; its eyes and teeth red with fanatical revenge fantasies. It hopped an ethereal pecking order from the steel-belted beast that obliterated it; to the bi-pod that handled the beast; on up the food chain (so to speak) until it found out whomever started carving up prairies and fields for clone housing. This little head spat acid from its vampiric mouth and laid historical waste to the so-and-sos responsible. Poor fucker.
I looked from the smudged square to an adjacent oil slick (from which I witnessed an eons deceased , irate velociraptor materialize – screaming for vengeance -- incensed at its carcass being processed to make pocket fishermen). I realized it was beer o’clock, so I tromped into my house; the smattering nihilism of the human subspecies rattling my brain as I flipped on the stereo, gathering my frothy canister of fermentation.
The aggressive sounds pouring from my stereo jived me back to a misery-loves-company place. It wasn’t the rat-feces plateau of misery which got me down. It was this bloated, suit-clad martini-and-plutonium vision of reality. It flowed from the way life can be like cheap beer; the way it tastes like downstream horse piss, but in the pinch of a low-budget night, it works the same magic. You yearn for the good stuff but you can't scrape for it every time. And the hangovers can be just as bad a drum circle. It’s that carrot of prosperity, the one Status drives past with us on the freeway. All the time you know her tits are fake and her smile is just as impotent as her date, but you can’t help thinking how much fun it would be to be the pinball in between those silicon bumpers - if only for a second. Then the dawn lights you up: Wouldn’t it be clever not having to worry about getting sick or being flipped from your pad in lieu of a fucking good meal? They must have it all, right? Maybe they do, but all is nothing, all is a fraud. All is the shine on the game show host’s blinding teeth.
So I pace the place in a kamikaze furor, all-the-while sinister staffs plaster me from the stereo. The cheap beer rolls down and gets recycled and the world looks somewhat brighter - like taking off your sunglasses at dusk. You think 'maybe it’s not all so offal.' It just might not be. So I perch on the couch like a gargoyle, contemplating which record will support my new-found optimistic mental erection. Musical porno, I suppose. So I dig up something which sounds like sandpaper grating with the grain as opposed to against it. Between that and the alcohol-blood transfusion, I think: hey this shithole ain’t such a dead horse! Then I looked out the window and watch the neighbor’s mutt ingesting the poor rabbit’s head. Que sirah…
But I didn’t lose it completely. Now mind you, this wasn't exactly a a spotlight and choral backed epiphany, but this world is a dog eat hare-guts world, and sometimes it's not such a bad gig. It wasn's as much a chainsaw to the guts illumination, as much as it was a surreptitious sucker-punch. What made reality a filth-greased chute was the vast and under-realized potential of our species. As I sat sucking down somewhere between eight and number ten of the night (speaking of potential lost), it seemed that my cultural dimmer-switch was set for an evening – a long evening – of romantic alcohol-based denial.
We, the flickering night light in the bathroom that people are, can smell the miasmic void we're dangling above, but can't seem to scrounge-up any proper contingency plans. We have so many options beyond our videodrome, camera-headed existence, but we let the high-ballers sip from their opulence, while driving their economic combines through our fragile swaying existences, as we gasp for new and better reality constructs. Our TVs reflect our own failures, allowing us to twist the daggers into our backs until we’ve bled-out to nothing but the gut-rot whiskey, which itself was fermented from our ho-hums and oh wells (like the roads paved with our idyllic intent). Where did we go wrong? Can we stop the future before it consumes us like morbidly obese buffet goers, all set up with their between-plate magazines? Sometimes I hear it in the night - a subtle murmur - the scraping metal on metal of our collective unconscious’ gears. But it’s so faint that I often attribute it to sleep-deprived or intoxicated aural hallucinations.
Outside in the yard, my mangy neighbor is smacking his lips above the partially-incgested Sumerian astrology chart which used to dart around the yard. I’ve once again smacked into the brick wall of my own short comings again as the number nine (or is it ten?) pop-hisses it's arctic, hoppy goodness at me. Gotta flip the record. Maybe change it all-together.
Wherever you are, oh severed bunny head -distended and ruptured and angry - do your worst!
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
A Change in Seasons
What is 30? Its a number. Its a feeling that you've progressed beyond the rambunctious 20s; leapt further into the quagmire of "mature adulthood." Its a kick to the emotional testicles (or feminine comparable) that leaves you crumpled to the ground. Yet it really isn't that bad at all. It merely is.
Why is it a big deal? I don't know. When I careened into double digits, I honestly can't recall it presenting me with any internal consternation. 16 was a worthless number to me, seeing as I didn't get my drivers license until I hit 17. 18 meant porn and cigarettes - not too shabby at all. 21 was the coup de grace for me. The lack of paranoia - the hefty satchel strewn over your shoulder at the bar removed - now that was inherent beauty. And of course there were full nude strip clubs and being able to drive cab for some companies (ok, that one wasn't so neat).
I remember being a little freaked about hitting 20, due to my assumption that I'd never survive to see it. Obviously, that proved fictitious. I may dwell on birthdays a bit too much, but whatever. We've only a finite grouping of them.
A far as I know, there is no set precedent for celebrating birthdays after you hit your twenties. Some people enjoy the recurring family gathering. Others indulge in bar-hopping with friends (or family). Still others prefer to be alone. Personally, I enjoy the gloved hand of terror on my back (for a moment), a dollop of introspection and then capping it off with a room-spinning evening of some sort - good friends, decent alcohol and a hangover to introvert me on the next day serves me well. But I've rambled tangentially - as I'm wont to do - away from the original subject. 30.
Does 30 mean its time to settle down, work on a career and prepare for the proverbial picket fences and the shit machines? Not per se - at least in my inhabited flesh bag. Of course those thoughts permeate my brain as would gunshots no matter what I do, but I won't allow social tradition and atavism to drag me down completely. I'm building my iconoclasm one snafu at a time. Still, that temptation to club me a wife and pump her full of gism until she blurts out my demon seed dwells within the catacombs of my biology. If I had to, I'd rather pull my shit together first though. I'll worry about the procreation and other such nonsense later - preferably when I'm dead.
'They' say 30 is the new twenty (which would bump every other decade up I suppose). I have to admit, I know numerous post 30-types still attached to the rapscallion life. I'm not sure I want to leave that wacky club either. But responsibility looms like a jagged edifice. My parents are getting older and are by no means wealthy. Plus, supposing I decide to spawn - for some elusive reason - having something more solvent than a shit job would be useful. Still, I seem to be caught in a Peter Pan bear trap of my own volition. Indecision during this phase of life seems a more potent energy siphon than ever before. All this excess effort could be willingly funneled into personal productivity and progression. Dwelling on this planet is far from a study in absolutes, though (unless you're a zealot). How does one go about reaching balance? In a strictly figurative sense, no fat kids allowed on my teeter totter.
Turning 30 means - aside from utter shock at my continued existence - that middle age is pulsing ever closer. Admittedly, there is no guarantee that the species will survive long enough for me to see this fabled realm, but if it does I've got a lot of inner-demons to polka with first. Can I maintain the body breaking pace I'm at for much longer? The resilience of my early 20s is like an old pair of boxers - I just don't hold up as well. My liver is waiting for the divorce papers to arrive and my kidneys are attempting to donate themselves. All these hideous biological klaxons resound throughout me (and let me tell you, they sound worse through the droning throb of a hangover). My internal derision is at a new high-water mark. It's like puberty part 2 (ok, that's a step too far). It certainly gives life bonus confusion layers.
Th only real conclusions I've drawn about turning 30 are sparse. I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for it - but time's jackboots march on into Poland. I guess I am ready for it. Contradictory? Yes. Human? I suppose so. Its a touch freaky-deaky, but it's no Rick James. If my personal history has taught me anything, its that I'm not dead yet, and have no such agenda towards those ends. Sometimes life slaps you around. All you can do take it and return in kind whenever appropriate. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing on this planet, and I've certainly got much less time than I originally did to figure it out (unless that reincarnation thing is correct - and call me skeptical), but at least I'm not alone. I'm far from the first or last individual to run across such philosophical trees felled onto the one way street of life. So, I'm 30 - fuckin' bring it on!
Why is it a big deal? I don't know. When I careened into double digits, I honestly can't recall it presenting me with any internal consternation. 16 was a worthless number to me, seeing as I didn't get my drivers license until I hit 17. 18 meant porn and cigarettes - not too shabby at all. 21 was the coup de grace for me. The lack of paranoia - the hefty satchel strewn over your shoulder at the bar removed - now that was inherent beauty. And of course there were full nude strip clubs and being able to drive cab for some companies (ok, that one wasn't so neat).
I remember being a little freaked about hitting 20, due to my assumption that I'd never survive to see it. Obviously, that proved fictitious. I may dwell on birthdays a bit too much, but whatever. We've only a finite grouping of them.
A far as I know, there is no set precedent for celebrating birthdays after you hit your twenties. Some people enjoy the recurring family gathering. Others indulge in bar-hopping with friends (or family). Still others prefer to be alone. Personally, I enjoy the gloved hand of terror on my back (for a moment), a dollop of introspection and then capping it off with a room-spinning evening of some sort - good friends, decent alcohol and a hangover to introvert me on the next day serves me well. But I've rambled tangentially - as I'm wont to do - away from the original subject. 30.
Does 30 mean its time to settle down, work on a career and prepare for the proverbial picket fences and the shit machines? Not per se - at least in my inhabited flesh bag. Of course those thoughts permeate my brain as would gunshots no matter what I do, but I won't allow social tradition and atavism to drag me down completely. I'm building my iconoclasm one snafu at a time. Still, that temptation to club me a wife and pump her full of gism until she blurts out my demon seed dwells within the catacombs of my biology. If I had to, I'd rather pull my shit together first though. I'll worry about the procreation and other such nonsense later - preferably when I'm dead.
'They' say 30 is the new twenty (which would bump every other decade up I suppose). I have to admit, I know numerous post 30-types still attached to the rapscallion life. I'm not sure I want to leave that wacky club either. But responsibility looms like a jagged edifice. My parents are getting older and are by no means wealthy. Plus, supposing I decide to spawn - for some elusive reason - having something more solvent than a shit job would be useful. Still, I seem to be caught in a Peter Pan bear trap of my own volition. Indecision during this phase of life seems a more potent energy siphon than ever before. All this excess effort could be willingly funneled into personal productivity and progression. Dwelling on this planet is far from a study in absolutes, though (unless you're a zealot). How does one go about reaching balance? In a strictly figurative sense, no fat kids allowed on my teeter totter.
Turning 30 means - aside from utter shock at my continued existence - that middle age is pulsing ever closer. Admittedly, there is no guarantee that the species will survive long enough for me to see this fabled realm, but if it does I've got a lot of inner-demons to polka with first. Can I maintain the body breaking pace I'm at for much longer? The resilience of my early 20s is like an old pair of boxers - I just don't hold up as well. My liver is waiting for the divorce papers to arrive and my kidneys are attempting to donate themselves. All these hideous biological klaxons resound throughout me (and let me tell you, they sound worse through the droning throb of a hangover). My internal derision is at a new high-water mark. It's like puberty part 2 (ok, that's a step too far). It certainly gives life bonus confusion layers.
Th only real conclusions I've drawn about turning 30 are sparse. I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for it - but time's jackboots march on into Poland. I guess I am ready for it. Contradictory? Yes. Human? I suppose so. Its a touch freaky-deaky, but it's no Rick James. If my personal history has taught me anything, its that I'm not dead yet, and have no such agenda towards those ends. Sometimes life slaps you around. All you can do take it and return in kind whenever appropriate. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing on this planet, and I've certainly got much less time than I originally did to figure it out (unless that reincarnation thing is correct - and call me skeptical), but at least I'm not alone. I'm far from the first or last individual to run across such philosophical trees felled onto the one way street of life. So, I'm 30 - fuckin' bring it on!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The Thing in the Kitchen
I’m terrified of it. All its gurgling, churgling, chortling noises frighten me so. I can’t see what it is but it torments me every day, all day long. I can’t even leave my house for fear that it will spread. Nor will I attempt to go to the refrigerator to eat until I’m completely starving and at which time, only in make-shift body armor. I have no dishes left, well, no clean ones anyway. I can’t heat up foods on the stove or even use my microwave. What kind of monster is it that I have? You may call me insane, but it is my sink.
No, it isn’t in my sink contrary to what you may think. It is my sink! I won’t venture near that thing for more than a second or two.
It wasn’t always a problem, you know. When we first moved in here life was spectacular. My kitchen was spotless, sparklingly new and efficient in energy and space both. My wife, oh the meals she would whip up. She’d be banging away on the faux-marble counters putting together all varieties of culinary delight. The dual door fridge stood in its off-white glory with its beige trim calling attention to its splendor. It hummed peacefully all the while dispensing ice, food that was fresh and delicious. The wood grain cabinets stocked with delicate china and glass ware. Oh it was quite a sight - my wife hunched over that silver, oversized oven with its dual windows of clear pyrex – removing a royal feast of turkey or meat loaf. But then there was that sink; that brushed steel sink and its shiny new garbage disposal. It was nothing but twin basins of despair.
We didn’t use it often. We had no need for it. We had a state-of-the-art dishwasher. It handled most flotsam and food grit easily. Other pieces of large food were typically fed into the compost heap by the back fence in the yard. Obviously in cases where more delicate items needed washing, we utilized the sink. We even used the garbage disposal from time to time (especially when we were too lazy or it was too cold to go outside and toss leftovers in the compost). For the most part, though, the sink sat idle.
While it wasn’t obvious, there should’ve been some indications that all was not proper. There were occasions, witnessed by myself alone - unfortunately not by my wife – that should have provided forewarning to the onslaught of terror that overtook my kitchen.
One day while I rummaged around for batteries I noticed that the faucet handle (one of those chrome jobbies, vaguely L-shaped although at more of an acute angle than a typical L, and pointing downwards of course) was amiss. When I first entered the room it was pointing directly towards me when I was on the left end of the kitchen pawing through drawers. When I concluded my search on the right side of the kitchen, I could swear that the handle was still pointing towards me. But, silly fool, I played it off thinking nothing further of it.
Several months later the odd occurrences continued to manifest. I was washing wine glasses for a change from merlot to Chablis and I noticed the disposal growling to life. It was only for mere moments, but despite the running water I could swear I heard the distinct sound of grinding gears. But it was just for a second. I turned the water off and listened – nothing. I returned to my washing, think ‘ok, that’s odd, but I must’ve bumped the switch or something. Just a fluke.’ Several moments later, there it was again. I switched the faucet off one final time. Nothing. It was unquestionably bizarre, but once again I paid it little heed.
The next time though, a warning light in my subconscious lit up. I recalled something odd happening to me several days ago, maybe a week or two. I decided that perhaps our fairly new kitchen needed some handiwork. This time I heard the sound of running water coming from in the kitchen. I thought it odd so I trekked toward the kitchen, although by the time I got near the sound had ceased. I knew my wife was out running errands, so I assumed perhaps the faucet had a leaky gasket. I tore into the assemblage, unscrewed as many pipes, seals and gaskets as I could find. My search yielded nothing disparaging. I checked the disposal (making certain the power was off) and found nothing that was obviously faulty. So I sat back down on my plush recliner to watch some TV and lo and behold, the faucet was running again. Unfortunately from there it merely escalated.
I tried to explain to my wife that something eerie was afoot with the sink. She refused to believe me. Even after further anomalies, she still held firm that I was being ridiculous. We hired a plumber; I’m the first to admit I’m woefully inadequate when it comes to pipe based know-how. When she found nothing amiss, it was both assuaging and disquieting to my creeping dread – mostly disquieting. That silver bastard had to be malfunctioning or worse! I didn’t realize how right I was.
When the tables turned on me, it became tantamount to realize the gravity of the situation. The realization was none other than our sink was somehow evil. The moment of truth came during an otherwise pleasant evening. My wife and I discussed in depth what she felt was an ‘increasing attachment’ to the sink (I believe obsession may have even crept into conversation once or twice). I curtailed my sinking suspicions for the sake of the evening, merely warning her that all was not right in our ultra-modern kitchen. We agreed that we would call the plumbers as soon as possible and have them replace the sink. Sadly that was the positive omega of the evening. We continued enjoying our Japanese takeout (I admit to being very wary about leaving my wife alone in the kitchen, hence I accompanied her. She said I was making her nervous, so we opted for takeout). After dinner I cleared the plates, taking them cautiously to the sink for a rinse. I may have been facing my fears a bit on this one. I began rinsing, still aware of a sinking presence, when I felt a tug.
All at once the disposal groaned to life snatching my overhanging tie in its vile clutches. I scrambled for the switch mere inches away on the wall only to find that it was all ready in the off position. I gathered as much of my tie as I could and wrenched at it. My effort was in vein. Repositioning myself a second time I pulled and this time it gave. The sink was toying with me.
Sadly my wife heard little of my desperate, gurgling struggle having retreated to the living room for post-dinner television. I tried to explain my predicament, but somehow the beast had allowed me to leave unscathed. My tie wasn’t even damp. She refused to hear any further of my ‘lunacy’ and we got into a heated argument. Unfortunately many things were said in moments lost too quickly to review. Many things I regret dearly. I refused removal of the sink until she was convinced of its beastly nature and I was vindicated. She told me that unless it was removed immediately, she would remove herself, immediately. I pled wither her to come with me to see it. To stare into its menace, to believe me, and its countenance would be no more. But she wouldn’t listen. I could only watch in horror as she locked the bedroom door to pack travel bags. She just wouldn’t listen. Perhaps she couldn’t conceive…or perhaps. No, the though was too hideous to contemplate.
As she left, I attempted to gain her support once more. I told her that if she came with me, I would personally disassemble the monster and she could stay here. She winced but gave me one more opportunity.
I crept towards the dank kitchen, bathed only in streetlight. As I leered in the doorway, it growled at me sending waves of its menace at us. My spine shivered palpably. It feigned supremacy, but I knew it was far more than that. That sink intended to destroy me – to extinguish my candle. Despite displaying its guile before, I knew in my heart that it would succeed this time. Its tendrils were growing in power and influence. I didn’t know how, being that humans are infinitely cleverer than machines, but I also knew that this was no machine. It was a techno-demon, plain and simple.
I tried to get my wife to listen, but I didn’t know how to convince her of the true danger. In the end what choice did I have but to let her leave? It was the safest stratagem. Even if the monster didn’t kill me, its bloodlust may have focused itself on her, her not being as wary as I. Its cunning rage didn’t extend beyond the kitchen yet, but for how long? I knew that I alone was destined to keep watch – somehow I could formulate a plan to destroy it.
So that brings us back to the present. I can feel its bastard tentacles squeezing, tightening its grasp on the house. The kitchen is nearly completely ensconced by its evil. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to gather food from the cupboards or the refrigerator.
My wife won’t call me anymore. She says I frighten her. She no longer resides at the same motel she first went to and if she’s with her parents or her sister, neither will say. Originally she had the neighbors check on me every now and then, but I warned them away. It senses their fear and continues to thrive. I don’t know how I’ll get food if the creature cuts me off from the kitchen. Perhaps I could reacquaint myself with the neighbors if only to have them drop food on my doorstep. Strange people also stop by from time to time and I fear that they’ve come to aid the beast. They ask me odd questions. I can’t leave this place until I figure out its weakness. I’ve lost everything – my wife, my job, my dignity and my security. This may be some sort of test. I don’t know. But I know this, I can’t falter. I must fend off its advances or, well, the situation would be grim.
I no longer sleep well, not any more. When I do I can sense it skulking into my dreams. I wake up screaming. I can’t let it get to me, but it’s made several more attempts on my life. I won’t delve into its insidious plots but it always attacks when I try to procure food. It may be too powerful. I don’t know ho much longer I can hold out. But I will do my damnedest! This is my crusade! This is my trial. The creature is strong, but I will prevail. No sink shall ever defeat humanity! Let it torment me with its gurgles (please send food) and growls around the corner, but I will be victorious!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Nostalgic for Splatter (Hatchet)
Let me tell you a little story. You may or may not remember it as well as I do. Maybe you remember it better. In any case, beware, for this is a temporally situated tale. Let me lay the foundation for you.
It was the vainglorious 80s. An era by and large that was all about being rich, getting shitty haircuts and doing a lot of coke (or Quaaludes, if you preferred) - the milieu of trickle down economics, teflon coated figureheads and Cyndi Lauper. One of the few things that actually, from time to time, kicked the generally stagnant, homogeneous culture in the happy-sacks, was horror films (and yes, I'm aware of how homogeneous they could be as well, but at least they had a picante flavor). The most prevalent of these was the slasher - reigning overlord of 80s horror. Love them, loathe them, shove them up the MPAAs ass, you couldn't avoid them. They were omnipresent. They shook their gory junk in your face - The Burning, Friday the 13th, Evil Dead, Nightmares in a Damaged Brain, etc., etc. The type of film that gave Tipper Gore PR hardons to go with her nightmares (despite the fact I've never actually met gore hounds that actually went on to KILL someone!)
But sadly, as the mullets receded into small towns, as hair metal fell to seattle sound and political correctness ingratiated itself as newspeak, horror films of this variety split for the crotchety hills Kandarian demons came from. Occasionally, during the 90s, splatter would rear its ugly head. Dead Alive, Darkness, The Johnsons (Neatherlands) - films like this stoked the fires as best they could, but for the most part, horror was flapping in the breeze like a Central Park pervert. Cheesy thrillers and weak sequels weren't enough (although I still have a soft, squishy spot in my heart for Jason Goes to Hell - unrated of course). Scream, despite varying opinions, did help renew latent interest in the genre, but it was limited to smart-assed, yawn-inducing knock-offs of the ...Last Summer variety. But somewhere in our collective cinematic unconscious, ancient tape-based chants were playing. The woods would fill with blood once more. Of course we had to wait for tame PG-13 "fright" films and lame J-horror remakes to slough off, but the red tide built steadily off-shore.
Hooray!
I heartily thank the new perveyors of B & G & T & A. Suddenly, those of us who grew up on grue, struck back from directors chairs and typewriters (well, word processing programs anyhow). The crimson surf hit with full force, taking our entrails with it. Amongst the many responsible was Adam Green. He represents the true believers of the splatter world and his film Hatchet resounds with homage, pastiche and resplendant love for a much-maligned genre.
Unfortunately, it never came to a theater near me. I thereby missed out on surround sound squishiness (and the entertaining to a point audience participation). I was stuck with my couch and my off-color television, late New Years Day ('08). I was nursing a brutal hangover on top of it - ironically from New Years Day rather than Eve. But I was far from deterred. I sat there all alone, laughing, squirming on occasion and yelping 'Fuck yeah' as the blood gushed.
The story is simple, to the point. Students partake in the standard Mardi Gras festivities. Our protagonist Ben, is nursing his aching heart (after a recent break-up) and bores with the festivities. He convinces his friend Marcus (reluctantly) to voyage into the haunted bayou with a ragtag gaggle of touristas. According to local legend, a deformed child was accidentally killed by his father some years ago. Now he prowls the woods, filled with malevolent, spectral rage, searching for any unfortunate trespassers. As you may have guessed, the folklore is anything but, and things go awry - big time.
Hatchet is a slasher film with its rudimentary elements in place, but also well aware of their surroundings. While it eschews the trite, hyper self-awareness of late 90s slashers, it maintains its brain along with its guts (mmm...brains). And what guts it has. This is not a movie for those shy of the sanguinary arts. It reaches down your gullet and garrotes you with your own intestines - in an SFX manner of speaking. Hatchet also has a fair share of suspense and good old jumps, elevating it far above numerous other slashers of a similar ilk.
Admittedly, not all the gags work to perfection, but it mingles low brow with insider winks and dry humor rather well. Its sensibly self-aware, tossing in juicy nuggets for horror fans without being off-putting to the casual viewer. But let's face it, even though the neophyte can enjoy it, this movie was made for us ravenous splatter fans. It contains some marvelous genre cameos and bit parts - Robert Englund as a redneck, Tony Todd as, well, Tony Todd in a top hat. Another bonus is solid casting (I know, I was as shocked a you were). While some of the actors are better than others, the main cast is well above average - especially for a slasher. But most of all, this film makes me misty for those cool, spring afternoons spent waiting at the old IGA for my friend's mother to finish shopping. We'd sift through the spinning racks, lusting after the most carnage-drenched titles, hoping we could convince her to rent them. Hatchet invokes the little ghoul inside me that never forgot the bountiful joys that a few practical effects and a shitload of Karo syrup brought. For that, I salute you Mr. Green, from the bottom of my fiendish heart.
Now, where did I put that machete.
It was the vainglorious 80s. An era by and large that was all about being rich, getting shitty haircuts and doing a lot of coke (or Quaaludes, if you preferred) - the milieu of trickle down economics, teflon coated figureheads and Cyndi Lauper. One of the few things that actually, from time to time, kicked the generally stagnant, homogeneous culture in the happy-sacks, was horror films (and yes, I'm aware of how homogeneous they could be as well, but at least they had a picante flavor). The most prevalent of these was the slasher - reigning overlord of 80s horror. Love them, loathe them, shove them up the MPAAs ass, you couldn't avoid them. They were omnipresent. They shook their gory junk in your face - The Burning, Friday the 13th, Evil Dead, Nightmares in a Damaged Brain, etc., etc. The type of film that gave Tipper Gore PR hardons to go with her nightmares (despite the fact I've never actually met gore hounds that actually went on to KILL someone!)
But sadly, as the mullets receded into small towns, as hair metal fell to seattle sound and political correctness ingratiated itself as newspeak, horror films of this variety split for the crotchety hills Kandarian demons came from. Occasionally, during the 90s, splatter would rear its ugly head. Dead Alive, Darkness, The Johnsons (Neatherlands) - films like this stoked the fires as best they could, but for the most part, horror was flapping in the breeze like a Central Park pervert. Cheesy thrillers and weak sequels weren't enough (although I still have a soft, squishy spot in my heart for Jason Goes to Hell - unrated of course). Scream, despite varying opinions, did help renew latent interest in the genre, but it was limited to smart-assed, yawn-inducing knock-offs of the ...Last Summer variety. But somewhere in our collective cinematic unconscious, ancient tape-based chants were playing. The woods would fill with blood once more. Of course we had to wait for tame PG-13 "fright" films and lame J-horror remakes to slough off, but the red tide built steadily off-shore.
Hooray!
I heartily thank the new perveyors of B & G & T & A. Suddenly, those of us who grew up on grue, struck back from directors chairs and typewriters (well, word processing programs anyhow). The crimson surf hit with full force, taking our entrails with it. Amongst the many responsible was Adam Green. He represents the true believers of the splatter world and his film Hatchet resounds with homage, pastiche and resplendant love for a much-maligned genre.
Unfortunately, it never came to a theater near me. I thereby missed out on surround sound squishiness (and the entertaining to a point audience participation). I was stuck with my couch and my off-color television, late New Years Day ('08). I was nursing a brutal hangover on top of it - ironically from New Years Day rather than Eve. But I was far from deterred. I sat there all alone, laughing, squirming on occasion and yelping 'Fuck yeah' as the blood gushed.
The story is simple, to the point. Students partake in the standard Mardi Gras festivities. Our protagonist Ben, is nursing his aching heart (after a recent break-up) and bores with the festivities. He convinces his friend Marcus (reluctantly) to voyage into the haunted bayou with a ragtag gaggle of touristas. According to local legend, a deformed child was accidentally killed by his father some years ago. Now he prowls the woods, filled with malevolent, spectral rage, searching for any unfortunate trespassers. As you may have guessed, the folklore is anything but, and things go awry - big time.
Hatchet is a slasher film with its rudimentary elements in place, but also well aware of their surroundings. While it eschews the trite, hyper self-awareness of late 90s slashers, it maintains its brain along with its guts (mmm...brains). And what guts it has. This is not a movie for those shy of the sanguinary arts. It reaches down your gullet and garrotes you with your own intestines - in an SFX manner of speaking. Hatchet also has a fair share of suspense and good old jumps, elevating it far above numerous other slashers of a similar ilk.
Admittedly, not all the gags work to perfection, but it mingles low brow with insider winks and dry humor rather well. Its sensibly self-aware, tossing in juicy nuggets for horror fans without being off-putting to the casual viewer. But let's face it, even though the neophyte can enjoy it, this movie was made for us ravenous splatter fans. It contains some marvelous genre cameos and bit parts - Robert Englund as a redneck, Tony Todd as, well, Tony Todd in a top hat. Another bonus is solid casting (I know, I was as shocked a you were). While some of the actors are better than others, the main cast is well above average - especially for a slasher. But most of all, this film makes me misty for those cool, spring afternoons spent waiting at the old IGA for my friend's mother to finish shopping. We'd sift through the spinning racks, lusting after the most carnage-drenched titles, hoping we could convince her to rent them. Hatchet invokes the little ghoul inside me that never forgot the bountiful joys that a few practical effects and a shitload of Karo syrup brought. For that, I salute you Mr. Green, from the bottom of my fiendish heart.
Now, where did I put that machete.
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