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!

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!

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.

Scared

I'm scared that who I am, the society I live in is crumbling, a sandcastle in the surf. I'm scared that who I am isn't consistent and I'm not sure if I ever knew who I was (standard that). I'm scared that I did at one point but it fluttered away. I'm scared that I won't be capable of acting when necessary. I'm terrified that I will. I'm scared of indecision. I'm scared that repercussions will be oceanic, sending ripples in every conceivable concentric direction (but more so that there will be none whatsoever). I'm scared that my life, my culture, my world is skidding ass-over-tea kettle into a sparkling rimmed void, and that the last thing I hear will be a satisfied belch from said void.

I'm scared that my life is a waste. I'm terrified of my emotions but even more so that I'm a budding sociopath watching my emotions wither in the callous human sun. I'm concerned that I'll be wholeheartedly embraced for that. I'm scared that I'm just a dream and someday someone will crave bacon and eggs or have to take a piss and I'll drift off into a vapor and dissipate completely. The likelihood is higher that I'm a nightmare and the worst is forthcoming. Surprisingly, that really doesn't freak me out that much.

I'm worried about later and all the echoes it sends back. I'm scared of infinite possibilities inherent within existence - more so the horrifying ones rather than the wonderful ones, but they're kinda freaky too. (Will we ever evolve?) I don't want to be forgotten, but I'm not sure I want to be remembered either. I'm afraid of failure and mortified of success. I don't want to know what happens to me either way. But if it does, will it alter me physically, mentally and emotionally. Will my metamorphosis be a butterfly or a dung beetle (sorry roaches). I'm not afraid of dying, or getting cancer or terrorists. Should I be? That probably should scare me.

I'm wary of chaos and live in terror at the idea of order. I'm scared to leap when I've looked and even more so that I can predict the outcomes accurately. I perturbed by the idea of certainty circumventing uncertainty and kicking me right in the happy sacks. I'm utterly horrified at the prospect of anything beyond random patterns to the universe. I'm down for Kurt Vonnegut's Church of God the Indifferent if no other choice but to be religious.

What if I never sleep again, that freaks me out. But when Dream has me in her embrace, I still want to wake up and roll out of bed. I'm scared that the world never will give two shits about the nasty case of crabs it has, and when said crabs run out of food and oil and poison their own surroundings or incinerate themselves - unless the black hole beats us to it - that we won't even register as a sub-footnote in the end notes of the universe. I'm also entirely certain this will happen. I'm also certain I'm living the exact opposite lie than I desire to - now that's freaky.

The list of fears is ominously long: scared to love, scared to hate, scared to care...Confrontation gives me hives. Reality and its repercussions are fucking my brain up. Dating and relationships - now there's a manufacturing plant of fear and repression. I'm spooked out that I'll wake up one day and really get it through my thick skull that I'm an image package designed by a sarcastic, nihilistic art culture that offered me up as a living joke (not a god, this is a human package). That's a punchline I don't relish.

I'm frightened of my own potential and of finding out that I have none. My friends scare me more than strangers. But i love them for it - now that's fuckin' tweaked out. I'm scared that some day I'll look in the mirror and a dullard's face will gawk back at me. I'm afraid it's already the case, though. And ism's, ism's make me wet my pants: narcissism, nihilism, fascism, patriotism, solipsism, onanism, organism...shit I could go on and on (spose I already have) , but let's face it I'm just SCARED!

Wait a minute. After sloshing all these words onto paper - well pixellated paper anyway - it's like being 5 and pulling the old rusty chain in the basement. 60 faded watts of incandescant illuminates everything. I'm not really scared of these things. It's all in my head.

Now that's scary.

So this is where it all begins

(So I have decided to feast anew on the wacky notion of introductory statements. My prior introductory statement was a little bit too akin to the Fuck You mindset I exhibited when I first began my blogging experiment. Realizing that now a few people have actually stumbled across my blog, and were possibly confused by my opening statement, I present the redux):

Anew the day breaks, and its freshly becoming one of those days: the ones where your keys fall into the toilet, your boss seems extra-intolerable and your pants seem to have shrunk one size in the wash. Or perhaps its been a lovely day, where the sun smiles upon your shoulder, your smart-phone gains its own personality - a rather delightful one - and your body melts into the dashboard of your car, allowing you unusual distraction from your commute.

Either way, you're here now, and you really are capable of choosing whether you wish to peruse, exit or imbibe. Either way I hope you stay; put your feet up, watch a horror movie or sample a story from my day or my subconscious.

Welcome. It's your life - for better or worse - and I can only distract you from it. Hopefully with positive results.