Crackle the Dragon by DraikJaick, Reddit

Yep, I started Book Three of my [some name] trilogy. I’m about six thou words in. Started it, like, two days ago. I’m going back and forth in narrative, a dueling banjos sorta cacophony. Two sisters, one story, everything finally explained. Intrigued?? Well, pull up a chair, friend. Let me walk you through this!

I was all bopping along, project-free, with misty ideas of writing an American-heavy dirge on the, gulp, probably real life scenario of–OMG Why Is the Velveeta Twatwaffle Nuking Canada? Only, I’d have those I find politically repugnant as the Main Characters saying patriotic schtuff and things. Just so I can ‘understand’ and ‘give them a voice’ and…yeah, I just fucking can’t summon up enough demonic power to fuel a short play handling that, let alone a full length musical. [Yes, it would have to be a musical. I just saw Royal Wedding last night and now, must write a musical where someone tap dances while singing vaguely racists lyrics and pinching girls in tight costumes. It’s on my bucket list.] When, as projects do, a terrible, awful, maybe somewhat okay idea birthed itself from the birth canal of my creativity. [Eww, gross!! My idea is all covered in icky creative birth fluids!! Ewwww!!]

What if.

from Pinterest

That WHAT IF dragon uncurling its loathsome body. Breathing in my ear. What if Lysette…the mute sister who got her voice back…what if she and Alice and Nancy get a showdown or have to team up to fight the forces of darkness or have to take on the devil or…oooooooh. Mmmmm. Wheels spinning. The wheels on the writer go round and round, round and round, round and round. Nancy, of course, our main gal from House on Clark Boulevard, and her daughter Alice, who has her own turn in Alice of Oregonlandia and Lysette…who’s a big girl now in the mythical grunge smear of the late 90′s. And since I’m dealing with ghosts and death and the devil and…those that have died can return for a bit of a cameo and some clean up batting.

from IMDb. Lysette went to school in Seattle and Frasier was set there. Coincidence??

Storyline?? Bwha ha ha ha.

Right now, it’s a vague mess about Alice being accused of…oh, let’s say, a crime, a big one. And she’s broken, battered and broken all over again by life, by what the devil…yeah. It ain’t pretty, but do we want characters who barely break a sweat and then win the lottery? After four hundred pages where the worst thing that happened to them was a broken fingernail and a bad haircut? NO, OF COURSE NOT. Lysette, now, she’s a tough cookie, in the mold of all tough cookies everywhere. Hey, fluck you, I’m like ten pages in, if that. She’s DEVELOPING. No, I’m not defensive or bitter. YOU ARE. Are we done fighting? M’kay. I’m letting whatever wishes to be free be free on the page for now. If Lysette comes out like a cross between Buffy and one of those femme fatale broads from film noir, hey, for right now…I’m gonna let her be who she wishes to be. Is that so wrong? [As long as something gets on a page, is that not the whole point of writing?? I read that somewhere. Maybe one of those super-positive slogans people post over pictures of fuzzy baby ducks. Fuzzy baby ducks!]

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from the Daily Mail. Fuzzy ducks, indeed. 

Okay, so Saint Lysette-– which is the working title I have right now for Book Three in my [name here] trilogy…like I stated earlier, it’s told from both Alice’s end and Lysette’s. I might even add…a third viewpoint to this heady feminine mix. Might. Considering it. It’s being percolated and bottle fed in my creativity nursery. [It would be Nancy. Nancy!! Yes, do it. Maybe. We’ll see.] I forgot where this paragraph was going. I’ve got MST3K pulled up and it’s DISTRACTING me from this obligatory blog post about latest vague project that’s oozing from my creativity nursery like a sullen mythical lizard on heroin.




I feel totally vindicated now. Yep. Totally. [Fuck you, you Velveeta Stalin Wannabe! At least I didn’t call you a piece of shit or show you sans head. Yay for me!]

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from Gunsmoke and Knitting. Yep, I borrowed someone else’s apt description. I think it was Velveeta Vader. But like the real stuff, you can throw it at anything and it sticks.

Oh, before I jump off the cliff, um…my favorite bit of news out of the UK elections. Lord Buckethead. I have no idea what his political views were or are. I am not endorsing said Lord Buckethead. But. Someone went around with a bucket on their head and got three hundred or so votes in that quickdraw election that May called for. It’s the little things that cheer you up and make you grin ear to ear and realize you can badly survive another day on Planet Shitball. Lord Buckethead, well done, sir. Well done.

If LBH was some British version of a KKK…ugh. Must now go look up politics of LBH. Sigh! No sigh needed!! AWESOME POSSUM APPLESAUCE. Next time I have to vote in ‘murica, I am writing Lord Buckethead in for ‘write-in candidate’ slot. My mother used to write Snoopy. She’d write Snoopy in as her candidate of choice. Because in America, we’d rather vote for cartoon characters than the actual…yeah, anyway.


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from the Chive. American politics is still weirder and far less funny than this, however. Ouch. 

OH WAIT!! A bit more of your precious browsing time!! Here’s, yes, the dreaded writing sample that must, of course, be included in a post about um, a novel. It’s the opening salvo! Mr. Peepers is still with us!! Who’s Mr. Peepers?? You’ll have to wait for the FIRST BOOK OF MY [some catchy, social media friendly name here] TRILOGY TO FIND OUT. Yay!! Oh. This is first draft-ish. It’s rough, bold and will probably leave a rash.  Enjoy!!!

June, 1998


Mr. Peepers had gotten on my last cotton-pickin’ nerve. I pulled into the Deadman’s rest stop, outside of Pendleton, with the idea that I should shag my ass back to Seattle. I yanked a pack of Luckies out of my cleavage and noticed a young man watching me as he slithered out of his Ford 4by4 two-tone. Young, dark blond hair a bit too long, a scruffy face like he’d forgotten to shave or he was trying to look like Cobain, who was fucking dead as Reaganomics. Mr. Peepers made a schmoan sound, a sigh and a moan conbined. “We don’t have time for this, Missie Lysette!”

I got out of my old Dodge, stretched, made sure lover boy saw it, made sure lover boy got a real good look at my charms. He came right over. His plates had that Idaho tinge, and he was from Ada county. Was he headed toward Portland or back home? Like I gave a rat in a blender. “Hey, stranger.” I purred at the man, who stopped, his somewhat homely face lighting up like one of those Christmas decorations you buy at Wal-Mart, a cheap decoration you hope doesn’t kill you when you plug it in that first time. The closer Prince Charming got, the more fun I wanted to have with him. Just a young farm boy meeting up with a femme fatale. I had a knife, coated with salt, stuffed in my sock. I’d spill his guts if he tried anything funky. I had before. “You got a light?”





It’s two in the morning and I have a bad tooth. Can’t afford the dentist. At least the super-painkillers I got last year still work a bit and there’s the bottle of ibuprofen and a ten year old bottle of Orajel if I feel daring. As I’m allergic to Benzocaine.  It touches my skin, I get swelling, redness, a rash.

Ah but I’m not dribbling out words in the small wee of the night to whine about my lack of access to modern dentistry due to not being born with a trust fund…no no, I have started the third book in what might be an actual gosh darn trilogy. I know!! I’m excited, too. My brain, lately seems to have stopped working. No soup for my brain, to badly para-mix a quote from Seinfeld. I just saw that episode, by the way. Still funny.

So…have no real story in mind for this third book. I just had a notion that Nancy’s other daughter, the one she thinks is imaginary, should take center stage and that the women of the Stockhorst tribe should have it out…or fight the devil. Or both or neither of those things or option C. Which I’ve not thought of yet because I’m, like, three pages in and already wanting to rewrite that. Which is good.

I’ve called this ender in my ‘trilogy’, Saint Lysette. So far, I really like what flowed like a ditch full of dirty water onto the white screen. She’s a tough, savage cookie who likes to play games at rest stops…and Mr. Peepers is still with us. And I want to bring back that character that…and I want Alice to have that moment with her mother and…And I want…

So. Three possible books. The House on Clark Boulevard. Alice in Oregonlandia. And Saint Lysette. Two are written. This last one has just been started…oh the places you’ll go, as Dr. Seuss crowed.

My tooth seems ready to let me sleep.

Oh, on a totally not writerly at all note…I saw Wonder Woman. I went by myself. I enjoyed it thoroughly. I don’t want to pick that movie apart. When you hear the slogan for WWI…The War to End All Wars…and you start weeping, in a dark theatre…because…Because you wish…you wish such foolish, never to be realized things. World peace has become a tag line, a joke, a…And today was D-Day. When the Allies took the beach at Normandy. 1944. Only the dead have seen the end of war, as Plato wrote.

Well, I have a new project. I saw a movie. My tooth aches. Good night.










Clean Dancing, the Monster that Ate An Eighties Icon and then Pooped It Out For Three Hours

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Dirty Dancing TV remake– TV Line. Colt? Somebody and Abigail Breslin. Why Are We Touching Each Other? Oh. Yeah. 

Yeah, see title for how this ‘review’ will go.

So!! I read/saw where ABC had remade Dirty Dancing. What? Why? Those were my actual reactions to this ‘news’. As actual news right now [OMG just shoot me in the face with a nuclear warhead, please] seems to be a bit, um, ahem. I see that Abigail Breslin, of Little Miss Sunshine and Nim’s Island fame, will play the part of Baby. Huh. Okay. I can’t seem to find who will fill in for Patrick Swayze’s sexy, sweltering, holy crap can that guy dance, Johnny Castle. I still don’t know. I have no urge to even google it. None.

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from US Weekly. Look how serious we can be! LOOK!

Personal note: I watched the original and only Dirty Dancing with my mother and grandmother. It has special meaning to me. I know it’s quite shallow and blah blah, but it’s also a fun movie with some great dance sequences. It’s one of those lightning in a bottle movies, that no one should try and remake, recapture or make shitty sequels to. M’kay???!!!!

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from the Telegraph. Jennifer Grey as Baby and Patrick Swayze as Johnny. 

So, ABC advertises ‘You’ll Have the Time of Your Life’ and flashes some names. Debra Messing is about the only one I remember. Oooooh and Bruce Greenwood, poor sap who seems to get roped into a lot of teenybopper crap. [That remake of Endless Love. Remember that? It’s okay, no one else does, either.] And I know who Abby Breslin is. I’m a bit curious and wondering why Dirty Dancing would be three hours long. I feel a bit of gentle nostalgia suckering me into tuning in for this ‘new’ DD.

from E! Online. Breslin versus Grey. See what I mean? 

So I watched it. And I dedicated my soul to Satan to avenge myself on the powers that be that got this dreck onto the small screen where innocent and guilty alike were forever harmed by it. Yeah, that’s the actual reaction I had. I went out looking for a crossroads, carrying a fiddle and dragging a goat along behind me in case Satan demanded some sort of animal sacrifice.

from Pinterest. 

Um, I like Breslin. She’s a competent actress. However, here, in the DD monstrosity that slimed the ABC airwaves for THREE FUCKING HOURS, she seemed like one of those people reading a statement from their captors, with their eyes constantly flicking toward the gun held on them that we can’t see. She tried. She really did. However, her Baby came off as a twelve year old, not a ready to take on the world powerhouse to be that Jennifer Grey infused the original Frances ‘Baby’ Houseman with. Now, I might be projecting a wee bit; Grey might have actually played Baby in a perfunctory manner. I can utterly believe Grey’s Baby taking on the establishment and her parents for Johnny…I vibrate between derisive laughter and ragestrokes watching Breslin’s Baby stumble about like a hostage told to read the lines or else.

from Playbill. Awkward!

The dude taking on Johnny Castle…um. Eh. I don’t remember much about him except he TRIED REALLY HARD to act tough. And I don’t remember thinking, at all, ever, that he could dance. Was that actor a dancer? Any dance training? Uh…? So when he and Breslin smashed themselves together in the dirty dancing sequence– where the dance kids are shaking their tail feathers to someone SINGING THE DAMN SONGS because covers of those originals…ugh, Satan, help help!! Anyhoo!! When Breslin and nameless New Jersey-esque wannabe “dance”, I had to look away. It was like watching a baby chick get molested by a dead rattlesnake. That makes no sense, but hey, go with it.

Poor Breslin did the can’t dance stuff so well! Too bad she can’t actually dance. Why someone cast her in a movie all about DANCING…? I don’t get it. Did no one watch the rough footage of this and go, hey, we might need to get an actress who can dance? Breslin does fine in the overly emotional scenes. She seems sixteen, not twelve, in those scenes. Where she’s upset with daddy and…can’t remember any other scenes where she had to be ‘upset’. It all just blurs together in a scarlet mist! With a lot of spluttering cuss words escaping my clenched teeth.

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from Digital Spy. Not awkward. 

Oh, the whole abortion thing was kept in.  And the ‘writers’ fleshed out Lisa, Baby’s sister. Who has a ‘friendship’ with one of the black kids at the resort. No, this far more interesting and actually quite timely issue doesn’t get explored much beyond…they sing a song together for the talent show. That abortion angle, also, gets used to hurry the Baby-Johnny pairing along…kinda like in the original, but still. Penny doesn’t go to jail for getting an illegal abortion and Robby, who knocked her up and left her to sink or swim, doesn’t get his recommendation from Dr. Houseman. [Call the Midwife had a show on a desperate woman performing an abortion on herself and the consequences thereof– she nearly bled to death and had to face the police over it. If you want an actual glimpse into what women faced in the past on reproductive choices. Or you can ask older members of your own family. As they have stories to tell.]

Marge, Baby and Lisa’s mummy, and Bruce Greenwood, [I cannot recall Dr. Houseman’s first name, and if I don’t vomit this all out in one go, I will hate myself until the end of time] are having marital problems. They work them out, of course, with a SONG. Because…DD is now a MUSICAL. No, really. People burst into song now! That soundtrack from Dirty Dancing gets turned into unremarkable cover versions that just lay there and ask us to quietly dispatch them before they escape and do real damage.


Yeah, I’m all over the place here, so bear with me. DD starts off with Baby, about ten years after the events at Kellerman’s, attending some Broadway show entitled, wait for it, DIRTY DANCING, with, I assume, Johnny Castle either in it or involved with it somehow. We then flashback to Baby and her family arriving at the resort…and end


the three hour bloated atrocity with Baby telling Johnny Castle his choreography was great, or good or not as bad as she’d heard it would be. My ragestroking had kicked in at this point, so I might have heard stuff that didn’t actually exist outside my tiny red world of WHYYYYYYY. Also…to totally kill me off, what other reason for tacking on that five minute evisceration– Baby’s husband and child come flapping down the theatre aisle and we get the most awkward moment ever filmed between the twelve-year-old yet looking Breslin and the why am I here again Johnny Castle-lite non-stud. My eyes!! My brain melted! I thought Manos, Hands of Fate, had thoroughly topped my list of Worst Movie Ever Made. Nope!! I would cheerfully watch Manos and kiss its greasy, awful frames with a glad heart after sitting through three hours of Clean Dancing, the Advertiser’s Special Cut.

Oh and the sex scenes…How they managed to take what was truly a celebrated journey of a girl’s journey into womanhood at the hands of a relatively nice seducer [Shhh, from those of you giggling in the back! Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be. Any Gilmore Girls fans??]…and turn it into an awkward, laughable, cringe-inducing spectacles…sigh. It became too hard to believe that these two, Baby 2.0 and Johnny 2.0, felt anything at all for each other but relief that they would get a paycheck after this was all filmed. He crept over into creepy older man territory. [As Breslin, indeed, seemed very much a baby here.] I never got that from the original pair. Grey and Swayze seemed well matched; she might have been eighteen and he not eighteen or anywhere near it, but she also didn’t seem a child. They seemed matched and equal in a way that the new pair of Baby and Johnny did not. That’s as close and as personal as I want to get with that topic.

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from O’Keefe Woodworks. Ronnie Reagan, who was prez for most of the Eighties. Yeah, Ronnie, I feel your pain right now. 

There was no spark at all between NewBaby and NewJohnny; that was the biggest crime of all in this ill-conceived reworking. Would new casting have fixed this problem and created a brand spanking great new version of DD? Probably not. There was a reason the original movie worked. Why it soared into the stratosphere. The late Eighties and what was going on. Reagan, conservative values, racial unrest, still fighting the Commies, everything old is new again, no good dance movies since, what, Flashdance? What a feeling! I can have it all! What a feeling!

The chemistry of the two leads. Jennifer Gray and Patrick Swayze! And stories coming out that they ‘didn’t get along’. Ugh! They got along fabulously on screen, so whatever went on off camera fucking helped. Maybe we’ll get an eight hour miniseries from Ryan Murphy on this called– Baby In the Corner, The True Tale of Swayze and Grey.

The dancing…yeah, there was actual dancing in the original movie. Fun, sexy, outrageous [at that time, hello] dancing that made those watching go wide-eyed, a bit squirmy and fall totally in love with Baby, the minute she stammers out, “I carried a watermelon”, when Johnny demands to know why a guest has to crash the off-duty fun of the staffers. Because she was us and not us at all. Awkward and then a dance maven who gets to stand up for something. [Admit it, you’re not a crusader or that good at dancing. Admit it!!] Oh and, those watching, they just go all goofy when Johnny plucks Baby into the middle of that crowded dance floor among the other staffers grinding away…damn. When he’s teaching her to dirty dance and we’re totally getting why Baby finds Mr. Castle a bit intriguing. Yeah, we’re totally with her. She can’t dance, yet…but we see she can dance, with a little instruction and a little gumption from her own sassy self.

Yeah, you don’t get that at all from Baby 2.0.

NewBaby has no gumption! None. There’s nothing there at all. A director or a team thereof, told Breslin where to stand and sit and she stands and sits.

Now!! Was the original DD one of the bestest movies ever made on planet earth? Of course not. Does it have an undeniable charm and some truly fantastic dance sequences? Yep. Did Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Cyd Charisse, Ginger Rogers and so forth, take dancing to the next level decades earlier? Fuck yeah, fellow babies! You want to watch dance masters and mistresses, old MGM musicals for the win! Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, for one. That barn-building ballet alone, wowsers! And West Side Story, hello and goodbye. And…there’s a list. Everyone can argue the merits of their fave dance-heavy movies on their own damn blogs.

Where was I in this rage-induced scream against the dying of the light?

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from Elite Daily. Were you being blackmailed, Gemma? 

This movie, obviously, means something to me. I watched it, for the first time, in the dorms at Eastern Oregon University, then called EOSC– Eastern Oregon State College. A roomful of eighteen to twenty-somethings, enjoying the hell out of Baby’s journey. We catcalled and hooted and laughed and cheered. I later watched DD with my mother and grandmother and assorted family when my grandmother spent her Social Security bucks on a brand-spanking new VCR. We rented, yes, Dirty Dancing, from the local video store. [Remember when you could rent movies from an actual store?? Oh how technology doth make fools of us all.] There’s a giant gob of GoodTimesExperienced attached to Dirty Dancing, that have nothing whatsoever to do with the technical, or artistic merits of that film.

I won’t get much more maudlin than that.

To sum up this all over the map screamwhine of a ‘review’…IT SUCKED BALLS.

I’m not the only one to hatewatch this new retelling of DD, either. It wasn’t just me! Apparently, I was one of five people to actually make it all the way to the end. Most gave up twenty minutes in. Oh and Peg Bundy sang Fever. [Or Gemma Teller, for the Sons of Anarchy fans.] She was the older desperate ‘bungalow bunny’, who paid Johnny to make her feel like a natural woman. Yeah. [As I’m a Sons of Anarchy fan, watching her on SOA and then watching her sleep her way through the ghastly shitbird that was DD actually made the little hairs on the back of my neck raise up. I felt them. Rising up. They were trying to warn me to find something else to watch.]

from IMdB. Charlie Hunnam, from Sons of Anarchy. Just cause!

I’ll end this with my FB post:

Um. What the holy flippety flip was that Dirty Dancing remake? I think the Apocalypse is actually nigh. Why?? Why would…I just can’t…I can’t even form…ugh…I can’t…I have to pretend, now, that I didn’t watch it, I have to pretend now that no one took DD and turned it into…that. [Was there actual dancing in that thing??Why can’t I remember any dancing?? MY BRAIN DOESN’T WORK ANYMORE.]

I need some homemade dandelion wine and my VHS copy of the actual Dirty Dancing. Dance, Patrick, dance!

#MyEyes #HelpMeWine#OhMyNeedToPackForEndOfWorld #KillThatThingWithFire

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from “They’re not filming this, right?”
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from People. That iconic lift. Yeah, you’re welcome. 

Let’s Go to the Movies!

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from Imagelist

Oh, gentle readers and assorted others– I was going to post something writer-ish and perhaps even share a bit of my latest little project! I really was! Instead I saw this list about movies…and felt, as in lots of feels, that I should, instead, fill in my choices for all the movie categories below. It was something I saw over on FB. If that’s even cool anymore to admit you go anywhere near FB. So!! Here ya go. It’s not scientific or artistic or of any merit whatsoever. So it will probably garner moi at least five likes and even a spam comments! Squeeee!!

Most Hated Movie: Drawing a blank here so I’ll put the Matrix. I really did not like the Matrix. I did not like it in a box, I did not like it with a fox.

Movie I Think Is Overrated: Avatar– Fern Gully did this way better and it was funnier.

Movie I Think Is Underrated: Fame– the 80’s movie about the artsy school, and if they remake this one, I’m going on a rampage. Wonder Boys– Michael Douglas and Toby Maguire. I can watch this one over and over. Why is this not a staple of TBS???

Movie I Love: Office Space. I believe you have my stapler? PC load letter. We need to talk about your TPS reports.

Movie I Secretly Love: okay, do not judge me. Don’t. These movies are my version of crack, meth, Oxycontin…Twilight. Yep. Twilight. If you doubt my sanity and have taken me off your list of future Serious Girl Writers, well, I don’t blame you in the least. I watch this movie with a hate-it/this is so oddly soothing back and forth going on in my head.

from wikipedia

Favorite Action Movie: Captain Blood came to the forefront here. With Errol Flyn. The Run-Down, with the Rock and Christopher Walken. Okay, the Scorpion King, too. It’s fun and goofy. Um, [if you’re done judging me from the Twilight admittance] the Robin Hood with Kevin Costner. Because it’s fun and goofy and features Alan Rickman stealing the whole movie. Come on!! Thelma and freaking Louise, of course, of course. Jurassic Park.

from Tumblr

Favorite Drama: The Color Purple. Like Water for Chocolate. A Room With a View. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Grapes of Wrath. A Streetcar Named Desire. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. An Officer and a Gentleman. Terms of Endearment. The Black Stallion. The Man From Snowy River. Where the Red Fern Grows. Old Yeller. Gladiator. Dante’s Peak.

Favorite Western: The Beguiled– why did they remake this?? Why?? Unforgiven. The Apple Dumpling Gang– does this count? It’s Disney, but it’s sorta a Western. The Ballad of Little Jo– about a woman who dressed as a man to survive in the Old West, based on a true story. The Quick and the Dead, Sharon Stone one. The Coen Brothers and their version of True Grit. [My dad likes the ‘real’ True Grit, by the way. If you don’t know that John Wayne also made a movie called True Grit, you’re probably watching too many foreign cat videos over on the youtubes.] Posse. Renegade with Vincent Cassel, because no one should never not watch a French guy in a Western. Dead Man– Johnny Depp does a fantastic turn in this dark, crystal clear black and white masterpiece from Jim Jarmusch.

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from the Odyssey Online

Favorite Horror: Okay, here goes. Night of the Living Dead– the original one, not the remake, ugh a bug, stop remaking the classics, you fucksticks. The Exorcist– it still gives me the shivers. The Devil’s Backbone– a Spanish film that’s truly gorgeous and truly spooky. Halloween– the original because I don’t have to explain why, do I? Carrie– the Brian DePalma one, with Sissy Spacechick. Yes, I do want to see the musical based on Carrie, you bet your buckets of pig’s blood I do. An American Werewolf in London, want to watch that right now. Waxwork, both of them. Both!! The Company of Wolves– based on the Angela Carter stories, gorgeous and creepy and darkly sexual. Audition– one of the truly most frightening movies I’ve ever sat through. Drag Me to Hell– eerie and so well done with just shadows and sound effects mostly, rather old-fashioned for a Sam Raimi flick. Army of Darkness– this might be in the sci-fi category, but then again, maybe not. From Dusk till Dawn. Pitch Black. The Abominable Dr. Phibes– I have to drop everything and watch this when it comes on, just a hypnotic acid trip of a movie. I’ve never done acid, but…Holy crap, will stop there.


Favorite Comedy: Arsenic and Old Lace. Buffy, the Vampire Slayer– with Paul Reubens and Rutger Hauer and some truly 90’s slangin’ going on. Harvey. Waiting for Guffman. The Princess Bride. Blazing Saddles. Young Frankenstein. Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Run away, run away! Planes, Trains and Automobiles. The Birdcage. This is Spinal Tap. The Ref– seriously, this is Christmas with my family, or it seems like it. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. High Spirits. Dogma. The original Ghostbusters. Heathers. Best in Show. For Your Consideration.

Favorite Romance: It Happened One Night. Strictly Ballroom. Dr. Zhivago. Pride and Prejudice– I like any version of this, really. The Proposal. The Philadelphia Story. La Belle et la Bete– Beauty and the Beast, 1946. Bus Stop. Bringing Up Baby. Sense and Sensibility. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Out of Sight. Moonstruck. Penelope. The Holiday– this might come under guilty pleasure movies. House of the Flying Daggers– this might fall under action/adventure as well? The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. Little Women– the one with Winona Ryder.

Favorite Shakespearean Movie: Twelfth Night. Midsummer Night’s Dream– with Kevin Kline. Much Ado About Nothing, with Emma Thompson.

from Filmapia. Anne Baxter and Yul Brynner in the Ten Commandments

Favorite Period Epic: Far and away, the Ten Commandments. Yul Brynner chewing scenery in that sexy manly skirt outfit, yes, please.

Favorite Disney Movie: Darby O’Gill and the Little People. I watch this all year round, by the way. Just in case you were curious.

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from Laser Time. Yes, that is Anjelica Huston. Yes, it is.

Favorite Science Fiction Movie: The Ice Pirates. [Go ahead, look this one up, I dare you not to wonder what happened in my life to make me list this movie in a public forum.] One I saw recently, Metropolis, a silent movie that they should show to those who think history isn’t important…The Terminator. E.T. The Road Warrior– still such a stunner of a movie. Pan’s Labyrinth. Labyrinth– David Bowie as the Goblin King!!! The Dark Crystal. The Beastmaster, with Marc Singer! If you have not seen that one or heard of it, honeychile, you need to go watch it ASAP. Eighties hair, animals, bad dialogue, oiled up heroes and villains. And standing around looking very helpless all the time ex-Charlie’s Angels eye candy. Go. I understand.

from Wikipedia

Favorite Animated Movie: Toy Story 2. How To Train Your Dragon. I still love Fantasia. Monsters, INC. Finding Nemo– that opening scene…! The first Land Before Time. Bambi. The Emperor’s New Groove.

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from Business Insider. Christopher Reeve as Superman

Favorite Superhero Movie: Christopher Reeve as Superman, that first or second outing he had as the Man of Steel. [The glut of superhero movies lately have left me cold, clammy and indifferent to cookie cutter men in tights. Captain Ironman Spiderhulk Magnetic Batdude can suck it. I’m starting to hope a super-race of villainous vaginas attacks from outer space and turns all the superboring studs into those anal plugs morticians use. Is that so wrong? That was a bit mean. Maybe turn them into potted plants? That way they can brighten a room and give back to the environment.]

Favorite Musical Movie: Singin’ in the Rain. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Sound of Music [did you really think that one would not make a list of movies that I cobbled together???] Brigadoon. [Anything, basically, with Gene Kelly.] I enjoyed the soundtrack way more than the movie of Across the Universe. If that means anything.

Favorite Bad Movie: Um, ahem, [[twilight]] ahem. Oh– Beast of Yucca Flats. Night of the Lepus. Catwoman– omg, I can watch this one over and over and never get tired of watching Halle Berry awkwardly imitate a cat. Wow.

Childhood Favorite: Charlotte’s Web.

Favorite Franchise: Star Wars! I can’t recite the dimensions of the Millennium Falcon, so don’t ask me to.


Best Trilogy: LOTR.

Guilty Pleasure: Dodgeball. The Mummy, with Brendon Fraser. The Fast and the Furious movies…any of them. A Million Ways to Die in the West…I know, shh. The Patriot, with Jason Isaacs. Peter Pan, with Jason Isaacs. Basically, anything where Jason Isaacs shows up as the veddy British baddie. [Lucious Malfoy, you betcha.]

Favorite Movie so far this year: I did go see Beauty and the Beast. I did enjoy it.

Favorite Movie Of All Time: The Fisher King. I keep wanting to write an entire post about this movie.

Okay. Yep. I think you were supposed to keep it down to just one movie per category. Whoops.

My taste in movies is atrocious. So, probably, is yours. I’ve seen a lot of those films on those big important lists that AFI and such put out. I’ve also watched those movies everyone actually watches. As trying to get through some of those ‘important’ films just makes me want to slap puppies at times. But I persist and get through them and then feel really smart and important for the rest of the day. I tried to be honest and not just list those films that make me seem super-intellectual and esoterically out there. Films that would make me seem super-duper ‘artsy’. Don’t get me wrong, I do like the obscure, made in the twenties, silent, B/W, made with actual clowns and random people passing by, German Nouveau, Post-Plague, Pre-Finger-Painting, three-hour take on a dog’s journey to bury its bone in the rotted bosom of society itself.

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Oh heck yeah, I will actually watch something along those lines with real wonder and astonishment. I’ll also sit through Dracula, Untold, and enjoy a guy turning into bats to fight the Turks.

This seems to be a staple now on FX channels. Luke Evans as Prince Vlad.

The Day of the Rabbit


Yes, moi is planning a stay at home all day and not mingle with the relatives be alone festival. Mostly because my ability to deal with people borders on cringing away in horror that other people actually exist outside my fevered brainlands. As said relatives, in a small town off the wilds of Boise [Idaho, for those who think I live in France or Canada, tee hee] have invited their relatives, who fill me with actual snarls. I have no wish to hear about how the lib’rals are blah blah blah and the paid protestors and…yeah. All of that swirling conspiracy crap spews from the various mouths and yours truly just wishes for that damn meteor of death already to hit. Boom. Gone. No more uncomfortable dinners with earnest little tape recorders.


I am a liberal in a very red part of my state/s. As this region here might as well be called Idaho-lite or Idahgon. But I won’t go into this, nope nope nope.

It’s the Day of the Rabbit. Where a magical rabbit hands out chocolate eggs to all the good children of the land and then there’s ham and springtime.

I know what Easter is, thanks. Brought up a Lutheran. Did the whole nine yards. Jesus and I have agreed to see other people but we still keep in touch, to misquote from True Blood. Lafayette. I’ve been rewatching that, which is why those particular words occurred to me in this context. Not so much watching it as it’s playing in the background as I write frothy somewhat happy morality tales about talking animals. I still grind my teeth over humorless Bill, who should have been staked in the very first episode, and shrill Sookie, the helpless little houseplant. [They made her do stupid things so Beell could save her all the time, it got old freaking fast.] I still enjoy Eric and Pam, wishing the show had cut most of the other characters and centered the show around those two Fangtasia fantastics. I won’t do a True Blood

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from Wikipedia

run down, don’t worry. It’s Easter! It oddly seems appropriate on the Christian Day of Blood [yeah, I went there and if you’re offended, that means you’ll come back hoping to be offended again. Yay!]

Okay! Working on my Beastface Bay tales. I have about five done. The giant squids of Jesus, Teddy’s back story, Burt and Judy and their crime spree, Sean and Bean’s exodus from Froggy Pond, and oh, how Teddy got and lost a friend. Oh. That tale went into a dark but satisfying place. I didn’t wish to write that fate of that little fish, and I know full well I can unwrite it. I’ll read over my words and see if it ‘rings true’ or not.

Oh, there are no tales about any rabbits in my Wind in the Willows knockoff.

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from Crave Online. From the movie Watership Down

Well, there’s a baker rabbit in Driftwood who might be selling her seven daughters to the locals for, um, favors, but that’s just a rumor there in a small town. You know how small towns are!

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Oh my, this started with my staying home by myself on Easter and ended with a weird reference to a mother rabbit pimping out her rabbit daughters. With a hasty sneer toward True Blood, which I hatewatch, apparently. I should probably edit this heavily and add some smiley face pictures. Well, back to writing! I’m about to dive into Captain Isaiah’s shipwreck while hauling slave horses back to Beastface Bay during the dark days when slavery was a thing. Have a nice day, Jesus.

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from Wallpaper Safari

PS– Night of the Lepus was on last night! I laughed, I cried, I laughed so hard  I cried. I just want to thank whomever over at TCM for deciding to run that truly so bad it’s good little gem right after the rather sweet Ernest Borgnine movie, the Rabbit Trap. [I was not out having sparkling conversations with sparkling poets, sorry. I was schlumped at home with the remote control and some tap water.]

Jellyfish Gravy and Zombies!!

Okay, gentle readers!! I have to pretend I’m an actual horror writer, that I live, breathe and fart tales of gentle gore and words that bring forth the monsters we know and love. Vampires, zombies, mostly. Werewolves never seemed to take off or get their hot streaks in the public eye. Vampires, yeah. Sexy vampires, via True Blood and Twilight. Oh and a shout to Anne Rice and her emo fang boys, of course. Louis and Lestat, oh my! Zombies, hello. Walking Dead! What fans didn’t burst into unashamed tears when Carol and Daryl hugged after Daryl found her, again, and they had that little dinner and he lied to her about Negan’s use of a baseball bat. Oh! My poor little heart! Tears! Or when Rick and Daryl hugged after Daryl escaped Negan? Oh!! Pretty much when Daryl does anything and it involves Carol or Rick. Yep.

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Werewolves, now, not so much. They’re not, oddly, very popular. Or not so oddly. A guy who turns into a dog. We like Beast from Beauty and the Beast, but he’s not a werewolf or some other were-animal, not really. Underworld— how many movies now in that franchise? tries– sexy leather-wearing vamps and sexy leather-wearing werewolves, but they all look alike in that blue lens filter. We’re just there to watch skinny people fight in leather. Plus, maybe it’s just me, but I’ve yet to see a turning into a werewolf sequence that didn’t just make me go, uh, that looks fake, is that supposed to be a wolf or…? Well, American Werewolf in London, okay, and the girl turning slowly into a werewolf in Ginger Snaps, not bad. And there’s other examples, I’m sure, that were astonishing trickeries of camera and makeup. Company of Wolves was hit and miss on the chango factor. It was pretty fun there until that hunter guy in Granny’s House went all wolfboy, then it was just a big dog and a girl. But Angela Carter did it so much better on paper, anyway. As our imaginations did that transformation and boy, did it look real.


The Big Bad Wolf trope really does need to get explored some more. Into the Woods took a swipe at it and if you saw the original staging of that, the Wolf could have done porn. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. And it wasn’t done to exploit or titillate, it worked in so many ways for that oft-told warning sent to little girls who leave the path. “Nice is different than good.” Yes, little girl, yes, it is. [You’ll get eaten by wolves or monsters, so behave and do what you’re told, little girls, or else. Little Red Riding Hood might as well be called Be a Good Girl or You’ll Die. Do we gals all not get that same dreary, strident warning all the time? Wear the right clothes. Act like a lady. Be this way. Be that way. Then nothing bad will happen to you. Except it does, of course. It does. The art work is called Twisted Eden, I believe. But if you go looking, you can find that many artists found many ways to portray the little girl or not so little girl and the wolf, the beast, the animal, the wild that threatens to engulf her or reveal her real nature or…yep.]

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But. Werewolves don’t seem to dominate all horror offerings like vampires and zombies do. Mummies, either. Frankenstein’s creation, eh. Ghouls? Nope. Ghosts? Sure, we do get our ghosts but that comes and goes. It’s been zombies on top for some time now. And vampires. Vampires for the romance and safe dark sex angle and zombies for most of the other needs. With your weird sharknado offerings and dystopian hellscapes full of politely dirty children gritting out lines about revolution and rebellion while looking like memes for America First, Everyone Else Can Suck it.

But. In the jellyfish gravy [ha ha, I bet you thought I was just coming up with weirdo titles and then not referencing them.] of my brain, I do tend to gravitate toward the dark, the strange and unusual. It interests me. I find exploring what makes that thump you hear at night– a thump that’s not a roommate or one night stand or family member of some sort or your dog trying to break into the fridge– something I just like to do. I do like realism and those little odd moments that pop up in every day life that can be exploited like a motherfucker for gentle readers to sigh over and nod over and smile or cry over. As writers are exploiters of the human condition, in case no one told you that. We’re not nice. At all. We’re cannibals. We eat our own. What writer doesn’t mine, ruthlessly, their own friends, family, children and self for their ‘art’? Name one. I’ll wait.


[[The above snap is from one of my fave films, Fright Night, the one with Chris Sarandon. Funny and scary. A balanced vampire flick. And some say the Eighties didn’t produce anything good. Sheesh.]]

Reams have been written about that ghoulish tendency to use those family fistfights at Christmas for writing fodder. I want it noted that I, too, acknowledge that yes, I will ruthlessly, without ruth anywhere near me, use anything anyone has ever said to me or done to me. I’ll disguise it a bit or not. I might get super-brave and just let it all hang out there for that person to read or see. [I do write plays. I have a big fancy degree that says I can write plays.]


And playwrights, oh dear. We do tend to get a bit sloppy with that surgical scalpel as we cut and sew together conversations we’ve actually had, or just had in our heads instead of actually bothering to talk to other people, into conversations for the masses. Or not so massive masses if no one comes to see your play. Eugene O’Neill famously asked that Long Day’s Journey not be performed until after, what, twenty years or so after he was dead? Can someone go Google that? Thanks.

Oh jellyfish in my brain’s gravy, thy name be tangents.

Anyhoo! Monsters. I did promise to write a bit about monsters after clumsily baluffing for many many words about romance novels and escapism, fantasy fun and lemonade. Danger noodle! Below are the famous Universal Monsters, such as Dracula, the Mummy, Bride of Frankenstein, the Wolfman…quiz yourself. Can you name the rest?

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Scary stories are cathartic. They’re a bit sexual, okay, a lot sexual. We get that nice fear going, we build up and build up and AH, MONSTERS or AH, DEAD MONSTERS. In romance or love stories, that moment is the moment when the sky fills with fireworks. In horror, it’s when the monster dies or we do. Wink! Either way, we’re getting some sort of ‘death’ and a release and a cool down period on the other side where we’re either victorious over whatever evil we’ve faced or we’re dead and we don’t care anymore until we get brought back to life for the sequel. Well trod territory. That’s why horror movies, stories, tales, what have you, will never ever go away. Tragedy works on this premise as well. Hell, there’s even a CLIMAX, as part of the classical progression toward the aftermath of that BIG MOMENT. That build and build toward something and then the freefall and the fall out. Very late night bullshit drinking a lot basic grad school palaver. I’m not the first to point this out and other fresh-faced dewy drunken sorts will point it out, hopefully, long after I’m a footnote in Kindle downloads on how not to be a writer manuals.

Horror stories and scary tales, ah. Because we need them to explore some iffy, icky stuff. And to, seemingly, deal with it and even seem to conquer it. Racism, sexism, otherness, bad skin problems, hunger, lust, materialism…what have you! Bad guy dies in the end. It’s comforting as Wonder Bread toast smeared with Blue bonnet margarine. [See Post Danger Noodle really long title.] Or, bad guy seems to die in end but actually doesn’t and comes back over and over because who doesn’t enjoy that trusty scaregasm over and over and over. Can I get an amen? Amen! [Shall we not even go near how very Conservative wet dream horror stuff can be? The rigid behavior patterns, the monster wandering about all willy nilly not obeying rules, the virgin gets to live…yeah. Let’s not. The Scream franchise dipped some toes into this and had fun with it. ]

Oh and there’s also fearporn and exploitation horror and just plain bad crappy horror films and tales, which have no redeeming value other than to be as gory and awful as possible. There’s no real art or actual structure to such dreck other than to present suffering and blood. Silence of the Lambs versus Hostel. Both are about some pretty terrible people doing pretty awful things to others. One won Oscars, the other just gets rolled eyes and an ‘oh gross’ from most folks. Crafting the horror tale is a goddamn art. That’s why good horror tales that resonate are so rare. They’re, those excellent, cream rising to the top, tales of horror and scariness and dark deeds done in the dark of night, hugged and kissed and celebrated for a reason.

Now, Walking Dead can drift over into the fearporn, just want to make you suffer as much as possible category. Miseryporn I’ve heard it called. That relentless, just start killing people as nastily as possible, offer no hope, no light, blah blah blah kind of writing where you get exhausted and battered. And dread tuning in to see what beloved character or not so beloved character is going to get their head bashed in or eaten alive or shot or knifed or scalped or fall down a well. Until you turn that off and go look up political speeches by White Nationalists just to lighten the mood. [And I feel the actual need here to say– that last sentence was a joke. No, I am not into the Aryan Nations and so forth and so on. M’kay? M’kay!]

Which filters over into whatever I’m writing, of course. Balance. Don’t go so far over into the drearscape that your readers feel battered into jelly and just start politely avoiding your stuff in favor of Ren and Stimpy reruns and frothy Cormac McCarthy novels. Horror can drain you. Make you realize there is no purpose to any of this and then the universe laughs in your face as you weep. Yeah, I’ll keep that sort of bleak awfulness for my own private collection of stories, poems, plays and such and not share it too liberally with others. Mostly because trying to get that published is a damn nightmare. And I get funny looks and queries about my mental health and if I’m ‘okay’. So, light and frothy horror writer gal I shall be, by gum!

And then I get bitter. Real lemon bitter. And then get full of doubt and misgivings about myself as a writer in the first place and write bitter bitter words that I erase or fling out, depends on how self-destructive I feel. Yours truly could start a war in Switzerland. That has long been my reputation. I’m a horrible person with a horrible set of awful words who’s not nice at all, ever. Yes, that is my actual reputation among most who know me. That might be my rampant braindemon, Fearmina Beaverface McAwfulness, having a constant go at me, but. My rampant need to destroy myself at every turn…it’s a combo of Vampire Queen and Zombie Horde. A kind of blood-sucking flesh-tearing free-for-all, if you will. Going on in my brain nearly all the time. Do you think if I took up heroin, I’d be a nicer, wiser, better, more polite person? Or at least…ah, the self-indulgent maudlin nonsense of an ‘artist’. Ain’t we fun??

Oh jellyfish gravy, where is this going again? Horror, scary stuff, post-post danger noodle world…


I like to write scary things because I like to write scary things. There. Okay? Here endeth the lesson. Sigh. 45 just banned most of the ‘free’ press from White House news briefings. Like the New York Times and the BBC and CNN and the Washington Post…and people are cheering this, who claim to wuv themselves the Constitution. Uh…? I can’t write anything scarier than that. I just can’t. It’s a bit, a lot, depressing. Oh, I tried to be light and cheerful and stay away from Tangerine Pussyhands and the Flying Buttmonkeys of Doom that have descended on ‘murica like an Orange Plague. I tried. I tried. I’m off to write a musical about my dog and springtime and butterflies. Yeah, butterflies. Who lead my heroine to a dungeon full of Pirate Highlander Viking Kings in cowboy hats. And then there’s a chorus line and a big showstopper about Sweden and whips. See Post-Danger Noodle for why I suddenly went flopwaddle. [Writer! I can make up words all I want!!]

Oh hey, if you made it to the end of this and there’s a medal if you did, baby!, then notice I wrote an actual book, I have plays on the internet if you’re a producer of theatre or looking for an audition piece and…yeah. I am Rhino-Skin and will ruthlessly promote my work! 




Hello, gentle readers. How’s it going? Good? Bad? Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, down to the nitty gritty. You can skip this one. It has very little to do with writing and is a bit, a lot, really really a lot, self-indulgent and rambling. You’ll also learn some not very interesting things about me. No real gut-wrenching admissions will hit you in the feels. I promise.


So, found a treasure trove of Mystery Science Theatre 3K episodes over on the youtube. [Moi does no possess a Netflix account. Moi is woefully stuck in some other year where Netflix was not a thing. Snickers expected and even enjoyed right about now.] I’ve watched Kitten With a Whip [Ann-Margaret as some bipolar JD blackmailing the voice behind Charlie’s Angels Charlie.] I’ve made it through the Mole People. [Beaver Cleaver’s dad and slave girls underground, while giant humanoid moles did all the work for the albinos. I have a sick need to watch that one again, because the snarky comment– this movie is all ropes and asses!–still makes me snicker to myself at odd moments.] The Brain That Wouldn’t Die. [Which I actually enjoyed. The girlfriend’s head in the pan alone. I totally bought she could talk with no working vocal cords. No, really, I did. She went from super-sweet to super-Joan Crawford bitter. It was AWESOME.]

Oh and of course, I had to sit through the Beast of Yucca Flats. Because. I cannot remember why right now but I had a pressing need, it pressed! to click on that selection and then endure it. Giant scientist guy, Tor Johnson? Well, Tor somebody! turned into a desert-stumbling psycho who has to kill, kill, kill and then some cars drove around, and the narrator said the most random things that had nothing to do with the movie. There was also no dialogue spoken on screen. Best. Movie. Ever. I felt high watching it. [I have no idea what the mary jane feels like, ahem, but I felt very very high during the entire Yucca Flat alternative world view.] Which brings me to Manos! [Below is from BOYF, not MHOF]


I kept seeing Manos, Hands of Fate, read that it was about devil worship. [Oooh, right there, I’m hooked. I do love devil worshiping movies. Usually because they’re so wonderfully goofy and full of nekkid folks. Yeah, I am that shallow.] So, I settled in and prepared myself for hijinks and fun. I had, yes, expectations.


It took me three days, three tries, to get through this one. It was a drag, man! A total drag, man! I was up one night with a bad tooth, I do mean it hurt like the dickens. So I pulled up MHOF and pow, five minutes of Torgo and the clear impatience from the three MST3K guys [one actual guy and two little robots, but still]…this poor achy lady [if I call myself a lady, does everyone else have to, as well?] fled for the arms of Hypnos. [Greek god of sleep.] Of course, the near overdose of ibuprofen and the application of ten year old Orasol via Q-Tip might have had something to do with that, as well. Oh, for those wondering why yours truly doesn’t just go the dentist…BWH HA HA HA. ‘murica, baby! It’s better to die free from an infected tooth in a free market cage match over who gets to charge ‘muricans more for basic, have to go the doctor health care because I think I’m dying than let them commie socialist elitists immigrant scumbags get a free lunch. Freeeeeeeeedummmmmmm. Bald eagles! Old Glory! Apple Pie! Exploding America First American Apples Only Sparkler Patriot Pie for me!


But. Mostly this movie was a very tame set of fights between the wives of Manos. [I could never tell if Manos was the guy in the Halloween costume and the Harry Reems stache or the god they all followed. And after a while I didn’t care.] The wives [they went from being limp, wearing white lingerie and old lady underwear, standing asleep against pillars to somewhat more active yet still limp sorts, all wearing the exact same white lingerie and exact same old lady underwear] squared off in what I thought would be an actual weird game of Red Rover, Red Rover. One set of wives [Manos/guy who worshiped Manos? was apparently some sort of version of a rogue Mormon or a Biblical patriarch. He had more vagina to choose from than the Golden Corral has selections of side dishes. Except he never had to run around in a see-through floaty nighty and show his undergarments. Sexist much?? You’ll have to go back to the beginning of this sentence because I went off on a weird tangent. Sorry!] wanted to not kill the little girl of the couple who had stumbled into this mess. The other side wanted the whole family dead. [Family stranded at night, finds weird hotel, has to stay the night, they worship devils, danger danger, the end.] We have enough wives, one Manos wife read from the off-camera cue cards. But Manos loves women, said the six foot tall blonde wife, that little girl will grow up to be a wife! [The MST3K team went ehhhh, and yes, I did, as well. Ehhh. Poor little Debbie! ] Then, the wives all rolled around awkwardly, slapping gently at each other, sometimes just sitting on each other as if waiting for off-camera cues. That was the bulk of most of this movie. Other than this couple who apparently spent all night kissing, that the cops kept interrupting. They’d drink from a flask and then go back to kissing. They had nothing to do with whatever plot was actually there that I could discern. Those wacky kids!


I finally made it to the end. It took a lot of stamina, but I did it. Me and that bald eagle below can overcome anything.


All this while trying to get my Alice in Oregonlandia novel going in some direction other than all the directions at once. Watching cult movies seems to be focusing my will to live, my brain’s ability to lay out something resembling plot in my own writing and those cultie movies scrape the despair and helplessness out of my poor shriveled raisin of a soul. Like a lot of folks, American politics right now stabs me in the face all day long. It’s very tiring and soul-shiveling. It’s not fun like it must have been during that whole Nixon thing! I’m claiming it’s helping me be a better writer because I feel a real need to justify why I’m watching MST3K instead of masterfully tackling my latest novel, while writing a full length historical play on the real Catherine the Great, done in rhyming couplets in the style of Moliere. [No, I am not actually writing a play like that. Not yet. Mmm…]


Manos did not deliver much beyond a ‘why am I watching this again?’ irritation and an actual horror that whatever I’d been writing had the same soporific quality as those poor women clumsily fighting each other in what was surely meant to be highly sexy and edgy cinema. [Or probably just an excuse for the director to film scantily clad bad actresses in their undies touching each other…not going to continue that thought. Because it’s obvious where it’s going.]


Oh, also, the poodle died awful damn quick. The little girl’s pet. She cried for it the whole damn movie. Dang. I cared more about that little black poodle than all the humans on display. There’s a lesson there, surely!

Will I take on another MST3K cult/bad movie excursion? Probably. I wonder if they did Night of the Lepus. I’ve seen that one. I remember the giant bunnies romping through a burrow. That same shot over and over. That’s burned into my permanent brain museum. Those giant bunnies. Those giant bunnies. [That’s actually a beaver, the state animal of Oregon. Buy my books!! Always Be Selling Your Books– ABSYB]