I floobed up my blog by being a total bonehead. I was composting a snarkalicious post on coyotes and for some reason, WP would not let me paste pics. Like it does at times and this time, it was really being a butthead so I…ugh. It’s all on me. I am bad at anything computer-wise and have the internet savvy of a Night of the Living Dead zombie. No, really.
So, all my carefully or not so carefully selected pics are gone, gone, gone. Blurgh cuss words sonofa…yeah.
I will go back through and edit. Yeah. Okay. Red-faced and signing off.
Oh. Possibly heading off for Mountain Home this afternoon. I’m in a dither. My instincts say don’t go. I have about a quarter to my name. That’s .25 cents and Mountain Home is a hundred fifty miles away so that’s roughly a three hundred mile round trip this eve. Yet. It’s a good opportunity to mingle with other local writers and get my stuff known and…flooglewop a doo!
October 25– welladay, yours truly, hopefully, finished up editing past blog posts. I’ve been trying to do a few a day. The struggle is real, my loves. The struggle is real. And now that struggle has been laid in a coffin and covered with a layer of done. Does that make sense? Mm.
I look up, movement catching my eyeballs. There. Scurrying across the wall. A gigantic nightmare of a spider. Big. Big spider! It’s minding its own bee’s wax. It’s just boppin’ along, doing spider shit, in other words. Not trying to scare the bejesus out of me. Not that I am all that scared of spiders but still. The spider I watch has the dimensions of a horror movie arachnid. That is, to use modern parlance, a big-ass bug. Yes, I know a spider isn’t a bug, thanks. But we’re stupid now in America and proud of it for some reason, so…ahem. Let’s return to the precious retelling of my Spider Tale, shall we?
It makes its way to the shelves. The colors of this beastie are brown and gray; I wonder if the name is Charlotte. If you don’t get that reference, just a big hearty gol DARN it.
I cannot bring myself to load the rifle and take that spider out. I cannot turn into a good gal with gun; Wyetta Earp sleeps yet far in the corners of my Wild Or-ee-gone soul, curled up and waitin’ for action, a’course. That spider freezes when it notices me noticing it. We contemplate each other. No, Sirius-ly! I stared, the spider stared, we both stared. I also talked to that arachnid that probably wished my actual death.
Read the following in the same voice you talk to your pets or stuffed animals or pet rocks when you think no one is around: Hey, look at you. What are you doing, spider? No, go back up toward the ceiling. There you are! How would you solve the Middle East thing? Who gets a worse rap, spiders or clowns? Would you get behind a gritty reboot of the Twilight movies? Do you hang out with a pig named Wilbur? [Gol-DARN-it if you don’t get that. I just can’t. Shut my head. LOL.]
Some sort of lesson happens. I learn something. The spider learns something. Nature versus inertia. I get my camera and try to get pictures. Because I’m batshit crazy at this point in my life. I find real delight in a spider that obviously bathed in some nuclear waste. I had happy moments watching this small life trying to get from whatever point A was to Point B. There’s a clear trajectory for that spider, an arc. There’s a story there, surely!
And here’s the kicker.
I did not see where that spider went.
That spider could be anywhere.
That spider could be watching me, right now.
Wondering why I bothered it and pointed a little square at it. Perhaps sharing tales of the weird human with the other giant house spiders. Or the outside spiders that live in the rocks and trees and discarded bits of machinery.
My brain tells me to stop. It’s just a fucking spider!!! Arrrr!!! Are you going to turn some stupid spider into a billion-selling YA novel centering around a typical male character saving the day except you named him Marsha because it’s fashionable right now to have a female ‘heroine’? It’s cute! Oh look, a ‘strong’ female! That’s like hot ice and wonder snow and– SPIDER!
[Random cursing, bitter diatribe, more cursing.]
My my. Must read some positive memes and just cure myself of any modern malaises. Whee. Wahoo. Whoop a do.
I had a week. It was. Um. That spider delighted me. I ‘worked’ on my ‘zombie’ novel, experienced nature without leaving my seat, much, and tried to ignore the outside world.
Oh, hey, my book/s are on sale RIGHT NOW. Buy one or several. Thanks.Look at me, being all Willy Loman!
There’s also a new poetry challenge to tackle! I see the words ‘Jesus’ and ‘ass-licking war dogs’ in my future!
No, I haven’t been posting some weird zombie erotic novella piecemeal. I’ve been trying to write a Welcome to October blog post but I keep…drifting over into a stream of consciousness vomiting on my country’s reaction to mass shootings. I’m having a low kind of day. I won’t go into that because I’m a god damn pixie of positivity, curse words better suited for sailors inserted here.
After all, I went to school at UNLV, grad school. I lived there for three years. I endured flash floods, cockroaches, truly insane neighbors and heat. But it was a dry heat. Which, hell, I prefer and grew up with. Eastern Oregon, Western Idaho, Southern Washington State, all one big happy high desert sorta landscape. Humidity?? What’s that? I moved to Maryland and found out. Gawd! So, Las Vegas was just hotter than I was used to but still dry. No humidity!
Mandalay Bay went up the last year I was in school there in Lost Wages. A big gorgeous casino, to compete with the other big gorgeous casinos and the older, looser slots of real Vegas, on Frontier…off the ‘Strip’. Or the slots in the various grocery stores. People playing the poker machines at the local Lucky in my neighborhood, fun times. You went to Wal-Mart after midnight so your car tires didn’t melt. Fun times as well. Yeah, I drank and acted in very stupid ways and somehow managed to walk away with a degree in, yep, playwriting. Or writing, if I want to sound more hire-able.
I have friends there yet, in Sin City. Oh a list of major ‘worst shootings in modern American history’ since 2007:
Oct. 1, 2017. Las Vegas July 7, 2016. Dallas June 12, 2016. Orlando Dec. 2, 2015. San Bernardino Nov. 27, 2015. Colorado Springs Oct. 1, 2015. Roseburg July 16, 2015. Chattanooga June 17, 2015. Charleston Oct. 24, 2014. Marysville May 23, 2014. Isla Vista April 2, 2014. Killeen Sept. 16, 2013. Washington, D.C. June 7, 2013. Santa Monica Dec. 14, 2012. Newtown Oct. 21, 2012. Brookfield Sept. 27, 2012. Minneapolis Aug. 5, 2012. Oak Creek July 20, 2012. Aurora April 2, 2012. Oakland Oct. 12, 2011. Seal Beach Jan. 8, 2011. Tucson Aug. 3, 2010. Manchester Feb. 12, 2010. Huntsville Nov. 5, 2009. Killeen April 3, 2009. Binghamton Feb. 14, 2008. DeKalb Dec. 5, 2007. Omaha April 16, 2007. Blacksburg
Thoughts and prayers offered. More like a ‘fuck you, lol– from your true leaders at the NRA’ …in actuality.
Oh sure, granpa fought the entire German army with a butterknife and a can-do bootstrap spirit so mass shootings by lone wolf, probably mentally ill, sorts JUST HAPPEN FOR NO REASON AT ALL…suck it up, buttercups. Granpa didn’t fight the entire German army with a dull, broken butter knife so you libtard commies can take our gunz. 2A, you assholes! How dare you. How dare you. How dare you try and come for our gunz? We can’t do anything to stop these massacres, because libtards took prayers out of schools so society is sick now. Sick! Gunz have nothing to do with it! Nothing! And Chicago. Yeah, Chicago defeats anything you libtards throw out, LOL.
The above is…yeah. That’s kinda what passes for ‘discussion’ about gun control here in the USA. Australia had that one Port Author thing…Yeah, but Australia doesn’t have our population and they’re not free there, they don’t even have roads yet. Yeah, LOL, Australia, fuck them.
So…I’ll drift over into Halloween waters.
Where the zombie is high and the livin’ is easy. A slight riff on Summertime, from Porgy and Bess.
How I love October. It’s getting colder, pumpkins are everywhere. I’m not talking the pumpkin spice craporama that infiltrates EVERYTHING. Jesus, just buy some Pumpkin Pie spice and be done with it. Holy flipping gerbils!
No, it’s the actual rounded balls of squash that have the distinctive coloring that thrill my cold, dead soul. Something about that deep orange of a pumpkin’s sides…claws me in that good way like no other squash does. Not even the summer squashes make me have to stop and caress their quivering sides with a single finger.
No, squash don’t quiver. Stay with me a bit. It’s okay. I love to carve faces into pumpkins, oh yes. I love to murder pumpkins and put candles where their guts used to be. Guts meaning the seeds and stringy crap you have to yank out or scoop out with a big spoon.
And yes, dressing up and going out to drink myself into an actual blackout event. That, too. Sometimes, that is. Maybe twice. I’m not admitting to anything. There was one after-Halloween morning where I woke up with pantyhose embedded in my knee. Embedded in an actual wound I had somehow sustained. No memory, even now, of how that hose came to be smashed into my wound like that. Ever yanked blood-encrusted pantyhose from a wound in your knee? Fun times. Did I magically stop drinking, change my ways, become a constructive member of society and cure cancer? Uh. No.
Ah, zombie tequila nights. I went out, in China, on the actual Halloween night. No, it’s not really celebrated there, for those of you keeping score on your Who Celebrates What Holidays cards, which can be turned in, when full, for prizes. I did full zombie makeup. I looked truly hideous. Like someone had beaten the crap out of me. Now, in China, women are supposed to look pretty all the damn time. Why go out looking like death warmed over, ever? It’s nearly unthinkable. And anything performance-wise or dressing up wise…you go for glam and pretty, not zombie-ish and stomach-turning.
That’s right. I went out, by myself, on Halloween. In China.
I had a great night. I drifted in with others I sorta kinda knew. I ended up at this one little bar that became my favorite bar for reasons I won’t ever discuss in public. [Probably exactly what you’re thinking.] Lenore’s. Yep, a bar called Lenore’s in Shenyang, China. It was around the corner from the Swiss place, Heidi’s, where you could get stuff with cheese on it. Cheese. Real cheese. For about the cost of what you made every two weeks teaching but still. [Not really but close enough.]
Swiss-French-German food in China, to be found at Heidi’s.
And just down the street and slightly around the corner was Uncle Sam’s. An American bar. Run by an actual sleazy American guy who oozed creepiness. But it was American, with an actual American feel to it. An actual dive bar that any self-respecting Sons of Anarchy sort would have felt comfy in. Uncle Sam’s served burgers. Real actual hamburgers. With cheese. Are you under the impression that China is not real big on cheese? Impression correct! Yes, there was also a McDonald’s and right before I left China for, oh, good, a Burger King went up.
But!!! A not-mass produced burger and hand cut fries, worth the high price. Worth it. Especially when you’re far, oh so gosh darn far, from home. Even a crappy burger and overpriced limp fries, worth it.
I remember Uncle Sam’s solely for the Go Ducks! graffiti written on the wall. As in, yes, the University of Oregon Ducks. If I turned my head, there it was, when I sat at the tables along the filthy wall. It wasn’t a dirty place, it just gave you that feel of filth, depravity and the need to take a shower right after leaving the premises. So yeah, an actual real life dive bar in the heart of Manchuria.
Reminded me strongly of the biker bar in La Grande, Oregon. The Long Branch. Oh, they had cheap, cheap alcohol– as in dollar tequila night. Shots of rotgut tequila for a buck. OMG doesn’t even begin to describe what nights like that did to poor widdle country mouse me.
Mostly because I don’t remember that much about said dollar shots of tequila nights at the Long Branch. I do remember throwing up, getting vomit on my shirt, then turning it inside out and telling myself no one would notice. Except. My shirt had shoulder pads. And yep, I walked out of the bathroom with an inside out shirt and shoulder pads revealed…can you picture that? It’s a dim, misty swirl in my head at best but apparently, people still tell that tale about me. Fun!
Also, there are Halloween parties I both threw and attended that linger fondly in my noggin. Nights of debauchery, clownish makeup and inviting Satan to nestle in my heart. Costumes I recycled, costumes I made an hour before going out. Costumes I planned for almost two months. Witches, ghosts, Satan’s Mistress, a sock puppet, a yes, zombie…mostly scary choices. I have more fun doing zombie makeup than slutty nurse makeup. I know!
I should just do a post about my drinking. It was, at one time, legendary and truly awful. And one on China and how I revived my truly awful drinking habits. And a post on why America is now a parody of itself and not in a good way. And…oh. I’ll probably just try to stick to hustling my stuff.
Hugs and kisses from a zombie at heart. Oh. I somehow started a zombie novel…yeah. It’s weird how that shit takes off from a weird stray suggestion found on a stray bit of paper written, uh, X amount of years ago. A woman wakes up after killing herself during a zombie apocalypse. Aftermath. That was it. And I’ve been flinging words ever since. Restarted it, of course. I really like my main character, who finds herself in a zombie-run world and who…oh, that’s a whole other post, my lovelies.
Welp. Yours truly got picked for that monthly poetry contest…not days after writing a bad unicorn poem. No, seer-eeee-us-lee! [Say that with a Valley Girl accent, m’kay?] The universe, man, it never gets tired of being the universe. My Mint in Pots piece, written for the August rush, got tapped. That little poetic ass got tapped hard. That’s for the prurient-minded.
I feel like September handed me some gifts and I is not properly grateful. Which affects my grammar and balance! So. THANKS SEPTEMBER. I will sing and dance and shake my moneymaker for your enjoyment later today. Slurpy kisses and too-long, slightly moist hugs sent your way, dear September.
The crust, for my CROW PIE, will be flaky yet dense. The crow is yet complaining it’s stuffed in a pie and the oven is broken. But damn, that pie will be consumed, hallelujah.
——–> Oh!! GO GET MY BOOKS. I have books now, for sale. THE HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD.OREGON GOTHIC. <—————–
Go and mock me in a review, you know you want to. Or do an actual review.
Write– it’s got a nice beat and you can dance to it, four stars.
I dare someone to do that. If they do, I’ll…yeah, I’ll do something funky and mildly public.
Oh and some more crow pie to consume, while I’m being brutally honest…I fell and watched AHS last night. But!!! It was all the crazy Milo-wannabe [Koi Fish] slouching around like some third-rate Bond villain with bad hair and almost none of Sorethroaty! I really don’t think an American voter would cut their arm off to cast a vote for a president. We’d cut our arm off to vote for dancing or singing, sure! But a president or some other politician? It’s so cute when the writers on AHS get so idealistic! Cute, I tell ya. Cute!
Trigger Warning: Depictions of harmless pumpkins as country-destroying fuckballs of malice.
I also love, complete and total subject swing here, so hold on…how people are suddenly so PATRIOTIC. Especially when NFL players take a knee or link arms to protest police violence and racism and a host of other societal ills that are Making America Sick as Usual. MASU! And Pumpkincunt jumped into this fight with both feet in his dick-shaped mouth. If yer a red-blooded ‘murican, you’re ballz deep in this here fight already and knows allz abouts it. If you’re, say, Euro-other-country-not-Europe…well, you have your own worries with Sharia Law being enacted there and immigrants taking your good women and your bad jobs and making you all speak Spanish or something.
Oh and the latest attempts at making sure poor people just die as horribly as possible did not get a vote in the Senate or something. But like Freddy, Jason and those Alien critters, it will probably come back for many, many, many sequels…cause some rich people sure do hate poor people buying insulin and birth control or somethin’.
But did you see the Voice last night?? Jennifer Hudson is gonna be a HOOT. Adam and Blake are the cutest! Miley is a goddess! If you don’t vote, those singers might have to go back to waitressing and being poor and not having health insurance. God damn it!! Do you want that on your head???
Oh, also, Puerto Rico, pretty much destroyed by Hurricane Maria. Being ignored in favor of tweeting insults at…sigh.
To sum up: right after I wrote a snarky poem, a somewhat okay poem of mine got selected. Crow pie for moi.
I fell and watched AHS, sigh!
I took two careless seconds to address both rampant racism and the truly ghastly health care system in my country.
I also included a PLUG FOR MY BOOKS, House on Clark Boulevard and Oregon Gothic. I begged, shamelessly so, for reviews and purchases of said books. I’ve tried cutesy, I’ve tried serious, so now I’m just tryin’.
Howdy. Hello there. No, I’m not taking on either movies or television today, dear readers, friends, passerbys and assorted other nice people. I am in full promote mode! Oh yes!! I will be a shameless barker of my works, because who else is going to champion said works?? Exactly!!
It’s been available for a bit as an e-book. And you can also get THE HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD in paperback!!
My first run at this ran into the lots of words count and seemed more about Hot Scottish Guy on Outlander and rehashes of all the AHS seasons. That Hot Scottish Guy on Outlander, by the way, starred in one of my all-time favorite Hallmark Christmas confections called a Princess for Christmas. He played the brother of Our Heroine’s dead brother-in-law. She, wait for it, falls in love with him because it’s Hallmark. What else are they gonna do in a Christmas movie set in an actual castle? Team up and fight Dracula and #TeamTransylvania? Oh and a James Bond was in it, too! Roger Moore! Score!
I will restrict my remarks to the CURRENT two episodes of AHS I’ve managed to cringe-watch. No, not a OMG IS THIS SCARY SHIT HOWDY cringe-watching but a OMG THIS IS CRAP ON TOAST SHIT HOWDY cringe-watching. Oh it’s bad, it’s just so very bad.
And not in a good way. It’s not a show so bad you have to watch it because you’re so entertained by how bad it is. Like, oh, Preacher. Which, also, has lost me as a viewer because it has no discernible story, attempt at story or story. If there’s one, I’ve missed it entirely. [Violence begets Jesus turning into a hooker is the nearest I can get to a story line here.] Whee…maybe there’s a blog post here as well. Mmm…
Shoot! Back to Sorethroaty and AHS:Cult.
I get sucked into the AHS promotion machine. The previews always look so sexy-scary, right? This year– dripping honey-colored semen and bees! BEES!. Sexy sexy bees. Scary bees and clowns and honey-tinged horror fluids! Argh! Sign me up!
Except. Ah. Monkey never learns.
I hate the Sarah Paulson character, AKA “Sorethroaty”, five seconds in. With a hate that’s probably never going to end. I had a very graphic death mapped out for her character involving Koi Fish’s medieval penis guard and the walkers from Walking Dead [with Daryl and his crossbow doing a walk-by cameo for no reason at all] but this is a family values blog so I’ll just hint of such things and let you fill in the blanks. Koi Fish is my nickname for whatever KKK-flavored Milo wannabe Evan Peters was told to embody in a cloud of rancid meat farts and Axe Body Spray posturings for the ‘woke’ crowd that still defend their protest Jill Stein votes. [Or the, just fuck me running here, BernieBros. I just hate everyone right now, geez. Ugh!]
Yep, I developed an unending, Satan-flavored rage-hate for Sorethroaty’s shenanigans about five seconds in.
That’s some wicked hate, to quote from someone. Agatha or Alba or Alli-Lu or whatever! is a Johnny One-Note here and boy oh boy…does it get old in about, oh, five seconds. Scream, scream, cry cry, there’s a clown, why does no one see the clowns, scream, scream, cry cry, I protest voted for Jill Stein because I didn’t trust Hilary, scream scream cry cry, there’s a clown, no one believes me, something about tiny holes, scream scream, cry cry, clowns are everywhere yet no one sees them but me, scream scream cry cry, I’m afraid yet woke, scream scream cry cry…
Oh. Now try two episodes of that, dearies. Two hours spent ‘watching’ Sorethroaty cry and scream and see clowns and BECOME THE THING SHE FEARS and…Wow, is that my melting brain tissue sliding down that wall because my head just exploded? Yes, yes, it is.
There’s a valuable lesson, for me, here. Repeating–without moving the story forward a bit, is just…repeating. It annoys the audience or reader. Don’t do that. Here endeth the lesson.
Also, if you’re going to write a character this repulsive, she or he has to have LEVELS. I had, earlier, gone with a cup of ‘redeeming qualities’ for my recipe for Character Pie but…fuck. Why? Why do characters have to be redeemable? They don’t. They just have to be entertaining! The anti-hero, yummy! Here endeth another lesson, fellow babies. I love learnin’!
There has to be something that compels us, the audience, to want to tune back in to endure all that HYSTERICAL FUCKNUTTERY. If we get surprised, for instance. If this character heads toward a le petit mort of a story ending that’s an actual bang, we’re there. We’ll endure the screamy shenigans with a blissful smile! If it’s all sound and fury, as AHS has produced nearly every fricking season, then, I’m afraid, my patience is done gone. Done gone is code for done gone, btw, #LOLIdioms
You wonder, also, why Sorethroaty’s apparently TOTALLY NORMAL wife, yep, wife…AHS never misses a chance to be ‘edgy’… You wonder why the SuperLesbian with the Short Sporty Haircut stays with Sorethroaty. Superlesbian Ermengarde [not her name, it might be Emma or Emily or Embeth or Emma the Wonder Goat] stays out of…loyalty? I’m not sure right now. The current political climate makes them afraid to break up? Oooh…ugh. Also, Sorethroaty has a therapist and takes pills…uh, that doesn’t put a mighty dent in their single income? Wow. Did Murphy and company just not get around to hammering the health care shit onto the AHS Wall of Horrors yet?
I had a near page on Outlander’s Frank. I’ll sum that up with– go watch Outlander to observe for yourself how to take what could have been a truly repulsive character and how those writers and the actor involved, Tobias Menzies, turned Frank, Clare’s modern day husband, into an actual messy human we both root for and against at the same time. He’s not Hot Scottish Guy, but he’s also not Monster Asshole Supreme or Saint We’d Like to Cheerfully Vivisect. That’s hard to do. Well done, Outlander.
What does the above have to do with Paulson’s godawful travesty of a character over on AHS? Probably not much. Maybe episode three will have her character develop…oh fuck me.
I just can’t. I just can’t hope and wish through ANOTHER SEASON of AHS, waiting for it to ‘get good’. It never does.
I’ve seen better storytelling on WWE. My dog can tell better scary stories about American life. [And she’s a dog.]
Now, granted, I was titillated and understandably moistly elated at AHS taking a swing at the current Political Unholy Hellscape or for the ‘other side’–LOL Libtards, Cry Me a River. Pumpkincunt’s influence and pall over life on Planet Amerikkka seems a tasty GMO-grown, gluten-rich, corn syrup-infused Candy Corn wonderland to explore. The wounds, after all, remain fresh and ripped open right now. Just today, Pumpie tweeted a doctored video of itself bashing Hilary with a golf ball. Yeah, it just WUVS the pussies, you betcha.
I’ll sum up a whole page I had on the clowns and the neighbors not seeing said clowns. WRONG. FAKE NEWS. Yeah, those surburban sardine smasharoonies…people see all, they just ignore a lot. Someone else will deal with it– that’s the actual motto of America’s heartland, urban ghettos, walled communities and rural escapes. It’s always someone else’s turn to change the diapers, so to speak.
But, more episodes spent hating myself because I didn’t have the strength of mind to resist the AHS propaganda machine…might lead to me writing even more blog posts on AHS and nobody wants that. Nobody!
To the clowns of September, buh bye. Don’t let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya. Are clowns the new zombies? Can we go back to sparkly vampires?
Yours truly took herself to the movies this week. I saw It, the horror film based on Stephen King’s gigantic, sprawling ode to childhood and some other stuff.
I promise not to give away the ending. Those seven kids walk through this closet and have to fight Aslan for ultimate control of Narnia. Whoops.
Okay, if you’re a Steve King fan, you’ve read this novel and have probably seen the television miniseries with Tim freaking Curry as Pennywise.
Good for you! I, too, have both read and seen those. I’ve read It more than once. Because I compulsively read books over and over. Now you know something about me.
So!! This new adaptation. Or remake. Or gritty reboot. Mm. Ahem.
From the opening scenes of Georgie, little brother to Bill, the MAIN CHARACTER, and the paper boat racing along the flood of destiny, we’re SUCKED IN to this world seen from mostly the children’s POV. The cussing, the kid subjects they find fascinating, the fearlessness, the camaraderie in the face of absolute evil…! The grownups seem misty and surreal, which works here. We kind of get why a kid in a rainstorm would talk to a flipping CLOWN in a drain.
I don’t get it, however, because I find clowns fucking scary. They freak me out. I’d never…okay. Which is a problem I had with It, the novel and It, the subsequent visual realizations of said novel.
It’s too on the nose scary in the 2017 film version. It’s obvious. Too obvious, for my esoteric tastes. It starts off as OMG SCARY SAVE ME BABY JESUS and there’s nowhere to go from there. It’s rather static. You can’t keep pissing your pants if you piss them right at the start of the movie, to be blunt and gross. Other reviewers and wiseacres have also mentioned the problems with the clown. It’s not just me.
And…every time Pennywise sticks around longer than ten seconds, we see the zipper up the back of the costume, to quote from King’s Danse Macabre. Which is a shout-out to those old, creaky monster movies from the Atomic Age. Godzilla to Them! to the Mole People. If you have no idea what any of those three things mentioned are…JUST GO AWAY. Ser’sly. Buh bye. Go watch Memento again, you squirrelly assmunch. Yeah, I’m a wee bit hostile.
I’m aware that It, the clown critter, is mostly CGI. It’s neato. Pennywise is far more frightening when it’s just that Skarsgard dude in clown makeup…that is one talented family.
But what I’m ACTUALLY wondering is how that damn clown fools any of those kids into following it anywhere or why a kid would let that thing close enough to grab him or her or them…after all, predators of children are not the scary monsters that Pennywise is. Side note– most kids get molested or harmed or killed by someone they know. We can’t teach Grandpa Danger, after all…
Kids are totally into monsters and avoiding them, after all. It’s called being a kid. Imagination plus knowing, without a doubt, that that shadow in the closet waits until you’re asleep before it stands over you, breathing. Breathing. As the novel does get into– kids have absolute faith. That moment in the novel King penned where young Stan screams the names of birds to banish the monster into the shadows again and it works. That’s the power of faith manifested through a child’s absolute belief that the right words will make the bad stuff go away. Abracadabra.
Where is the seduction from Pennywise? We don’t see it. It doesn’t exist. I was thinking, how stupid are those Maine schoolkids to fall for that obvious craptoad Pennywise? I haven’t read the book for a while, so forgive me for this. But I REMEMBER the clown/It being far more subtle. It didn’t start out at TEN, it began working on victims further down the scale, more at a two or three level. That clown [the creature that inhabits Derry, Maine] had fun with its victims, it didn’t go for the jugular right away like a rabid weasel. At least, that’s what I remember.
Now, granted, the year/s this all took place got upgraded to the late nineties. We went from the fifties in the original book to the time of Bill Clinton and the Backstreet Boys.
There’s a cute little flirty thing in the movie involving Beverly, resident perceived slutchild, and Ben, resident fatboy, about the Backstreet Boys. Or maybe it was New Kids on the Block or…ugh. It was genuinely something kids would do. It’s little moments like that that actually make this film a far better country that it has a right to be. Those little interactions that seem to rise naturally and organically from the story and surroundings…I know, shh. I’m being a pretentious snickerdoodle. Okay.
Oh, the Losers Club is made up of the stereotypical losers from any random school/small town. The nerds, the geeks, the fat kid, the kid that doesn’t fit in, the differently colored kid, the girl everyone thinks enjoys gang bangs, the four-eyed unfortunate sons of genetics gone wrong, the sickly, the weak, the losers. And, of course, they’re all great kids who contribute in some way to HOW TO FIGHT THE MONSTER. The leader, the builder, the navigator, the…these kids could build dams, do research, make connections Sherlock Holmes would have made…!
At least, in the book they were presented as such. I kinda wish more of their talents and gifts had been included in the movie, so as to show why these normal kids could face down an ancient monster clown thingie. There’s bits and pieces but still. It’s rather like the complaint about the magic weapons in LOTR. How come, like, three people can fight off the gazillions of orcs and goblins? It was all laid out in the books but not so much in the movies…okay.
Oh. So. The other MAIN OBJECTION I formed to this film was…the last part of it. Where an ugly little Scary Movie Staple raised its Ugly Little Head.
That would be Woman in Peril.
[the following contains slight spoilers!!]
I’m sitting there, enjoying this movie, wondering why those various other kids follow that damn clown to their doom and did I miss the part where maybe It is using hypnosis or some other machination when…the only girl, Beverly Marsh, in the Band of Losers…gets treated to the ace of Girlcrap in the Scary Movie Deck of Bullshit Cards. Fuck me running!
Beverly, newly on her period, the focus of several cute-ish crushes from her new collection of friends, gets to be an actual fighter and smartie pants for most of the movie. She’s a tough cookie, she smokes, she wallops the bejesus out of…yeah. Just as she was in the book…ahem. And then, yeah. She has this epic fight in her apartment– I won’t go into it because SPOILERS– and the outcome is…SHE’S JUST ANOTHER VICTIM who needs SAVING by the Losers, all boys except for her!!!! who UNITE after a fight amongst themselves…to maybe SAVE BEVERLY FROM THE BAD CLOWN.
Fuck. No, just no. I about came out of my skin. Good day, I tell ya, good day!
I was disappointed with the downswing this movie seemed to take with Beverly’s direction/purpose/character arc. I expected more. It also seemed that third act/building to the showdown seemed…voted on by a committee of advertising reps trying to sell Summer’s Eve products. I expect such woman-in-peril shenanigans from every other horror/thriller/indie/art house/whatever movie on the planet but…sometimes you dream big. You hope gigantically that, maybe this time…it will be different.
There’s also a passage in the book that troubles many, including me. If you already know what that is, well, let’s just say…eh, Steve? What the Cheez Doodles? If you don’t know, go read the book because that passage gets left out…yeah. It’s where they’re in the kid phase of life yet, are disoriented in those sewer tunnels and…! Ahem. But it involved the only girl and it was…iffy. That’s as polite as I can get.
So, yeah, I do recommend this movie. So few actual good solid horror movies float to that swamp’s surface. The horror movies dreckfest swamp, located somewhere between Plan 9 From Outer Space and Annabelle, The Doll That Never Gains Weight. Or whatever the newest Annabelle movie is. What floats to the top would be the original Exorcist, the original Night of the Living Dead and Audition, for instance. Your list will be different than my list of what a ‘good’ horror film is. And that’s okay. For now.
It, the film, the movie, the entertainment juggernaut, has flaws. The clown is too on the nose, for my tastes and the descent into WOMEN IN HORROR FILMS same ole same ole treatment presents some major head-scratching from moi. But it also inspires me to write better heroines who can save themselves. Wootie woot.
To conclude, It was a fine, eh, flawed, eh, goddamn clowns don’t need to be scarier, you fucknuts…entry in the horror field. The previews sucked balls, except for the Stars Wars one. [Shut UP.]
Oh and stop turning women in horror films into damsels in distress, for the love of unicorns and manatees. I don’t care if you couldn’t think of a better third act. Jesus said, in the Gospels, do not fall back on tired Damsel in Distress mode when thou writeth a screenplay involving clowns.
It’s in the new, updated Bible. The one Conservadepia is not working on, by the way.
Here endeth my scholarly film dissection.
Oh, I’m going to write next about AHS:Clowns Fuck In My Supermarket and All I Can Do Is Scream. Which the producers shortened to Cult. It won’t be as long as my It novella.
An Afterthought– nope, not gonna apologize for another post. Nope nope nope! #NotSorry #ClownsRTheNuZombies