Tomorrow and tomorrow and yesterday afternoon...

Theater of Blood. Can there be a better marriage of interests? Shakespeare and 70's horror movies. I just watched it again yesterday, and to my pleasant surprise, it didn't wash silly as most films I enjoyed when I was a scamp tend to do. This is, in my opinion, one of Vincent Price's finest hours (and 45 minutses). He always seems to best fit those characters who exist beyond the tall, dark, brooding, maniacal stereotype. As the Later Matheson-scripted Poe adaptations (for example, The Raven) show, he is quite adept at morbid humor, and, as we see in this picture, at Shakespeare. But who can blame him--any movie where you can offer several of the best Shakespearean soliloqueys, serially murder annoying British stage critics in very creative and literate ways, and have Diana Rigg as your daughter has all the ingredients for a cool-salad that never spoils. We've all heard it, but I need to say it once more: they just don't make 'em like they used to.

And then suddenly it struck me...

Halloween is just a few days away. It feels like it has been years since I have gotten swept up in the big cobwebby strawbroom that is the Halloween season. Back in Michigan, when not snowing, this is a wonderful time of year, all beautiful colors, hay rides, cinnamon sugar donuts and hot cider, yards full of spooky ghost-lit paraphrenalia. I used to read and write nightmares for two months straight, watched every movie in the horror section of the local video store. I imagined long conversations with Ray Bradbury and Bela Lugosi. I wandered around the cemetery my uncle lived in for inspiration and reflection. Anyway, after I moved to NYC, all that kind of dwindled. It was no longer so easy to determine the seasons. (There were only two, really: hot and dirty, cold and dirty). No one has a yard, let alone a farm, and Krispy Kreme doesn't do an old fashioned sugar donut. I even quit reading and viewing the scaregreats. So, this year, in my new environment, I have been becoming gradually more aware that Halloween is nearly upon us, and in fact, just moments ago, the nostalgic certainty of it leapt upon my neck like a mangy cat.

As a side note, one of the champions of dark fiction and Autumn mythos, Ray Bradbury, is alive and well and still writing. If you haven't ever read anything of his, by all means, pick something up. Incidentally, I know a fellow who works at a puppetry arts center in Atlanta who has been part of a project to bring The Martian Chronicles to the puppet stage. He has actually been in touch with Bradbury, who seems very pleased with the idea. I hope they are able to put it together. If you'd like to check out some info on Bradbury, go to www.raybradbury.com.

And now, a short list of recommended reading/viewing for this fine holiday season:

The Halloween Tree (Bradbury): It's A Christmas Carol for the Samhain set.

Werewolf (ed. Pronzini): A source of some of the best werewolf stories out there.

Hell House (Matheson): Very, very scary (don't be fooled by the film adaptations). Paranormal goings on in a large mansion; one of the great haunted house books.

Carrion Comfort (Simmons): Run to this book. It's an epic horror novel, and it works.

The October Country (Bradbury): One of his great compilations of short stories. Also, check out Long, After Midnight and I Sing The Body Electric.

28 Days Later (film): Zombie films are my heart, so to speak. This one really hits its mark.

Susperia (dir. Argento, film): This is a classic Itailian horror picture, complete with Raven, Goblins soundtrack, and the tormented ingenue.

The Exorcist: Director's Cut (dir. Friedkin, film): Believe it or not, I never saw the new cut of this. I shall have to rememdy that this weekend.

Also, there is a plethora of good music to be listened to out there: Tangerine dream, Bartok, the Goblins, any old horror movie soundtracks, Night On Bald Mountain, Tom Waits' Black Rider, Thriller (if you must, and I know many of you must).

That should keep you busy.

Or, if you prefer lighter fare, like my wife, there is no shame in a little Bunnicula and some Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown...

Politics...

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That's about all I have to say about politics. But since I've gotten your attention, allow me to turn it to far more fascinating and informative matters: my random group affiliations.

First, it was the few, the proud, the Order of the Focal Pecan (aka 'Order of the Fickle Proton' and 'Odor of the Fuming Peanut', not because of security issues--mostly we just couldn't remember the name). I and four of my high school classmates would meet in the evenings to watch cult films, listen to angst music, and beat one another with sock maces. The only ritual involved that of reaching into a Crown Royal bag filled with 95 brown coffee beans and 5 black ones. If you picked a brown one, you were fine. If you picked a black one, you were promptly beaten. Amazingly enough, someone always managed to pick a black one. Hmmm. Also, we would occasionaly re-enact Civil War battles at midnight with water guns on the grounds of public shopping centers. It was 'our way of coping'. The five of us all live in different states now. Perhaps that was the CIA's doing. Perhaps I'll never know.

Shortly after time and logistics had disbanded the Pecans, I came into the folds of another band of miscreants, the '3SM's', or the 'Secret Circle of Social Misfits'. There really was no ritual, except that when a member was inducted, there would need to be a formal explanation of why they were deemed 'loserish' enough. It never really stood in the way. Most of our events and conduct centered around working late shifts and McDonald's and attempting to make a case for why each of us was the bigger loser. Our events included seeing the plays that one of our members would be performing in from time to time (this was before I started down that road), and hosting a handful of schoolyard football games throughout the year. At our peak, we were a formidable team, seven strong, and we generally laid waste to whoever was unfortunate enough to be asked along. Or, if not, we took film and edited it down to look like we did. It was through the relationships I forged here that I truly began learning the value of friendship. Of the seven, four are married, one with child, two are doing the single thing, and one is a.w.o.l. We live in at least four states (not including grace, matrimony, and denial), and for the most part, we are all in touch. Not bad.

That brings us to college. I really didn't have any specific groups that I belonged to, although at some point along the way I became a 'theatre person'. I did gather periodically with a group of people to do symposiums, in the traditional Greek spirit (minus the little boys and the feathers). Topics ranged from Love to Friendship to Politics to Music. Anything that seemed capable of being milked for a couple of wine-soaked hours. Those, as they say, were the days.

After college, I moved to NYC and joined a 'cult'. I won't say much about it (too much has been said) except that I learned quite a bit, I found my wife there, and I have a great many friends as a result of it. A cult is like a viral infection--it consumes you, it controls you, in conceals you from the world for a bit. But, once it has run its course, you are left feeling very refreshed and grateful. Everyone join one at once!

Now I reside in Atlanta. I have no group affiliations. I don't really even have any friends to speak of. Not yet at least. I have reastablished myself as a theatre person, but an older, more tired one, as I work a day job now. Perhaps soon I will discover a group of almost-thirty couples who don't have kids and prefer beatniky pursuits to traditional Southern 'sports 'n' gun' fares. Likely? Well, I'm not holding my breath. Let's just say I'm reaching in the bag, always hoping for another black bean.

Warm, fuzzy, AND it makes you think...

I just saw a local production of "A Man of No Importance", a wonderful Irish musical about a man who loves the theatre, Oscar Wilde, and another man (in Catholic Dublin, no less). It is a hearbreaking show, in a way, even if it ends on a somewhat hopeful note. It could be due to the truth of the characters' lives. There is a theme of being in prison, of looking in the mirror and not being honest about what you see there. It could be Wilde's mockingly blithe yet utterly accurate proverbs. I suspect much of it had to do with the intense and wonderful portrayals by the actors themselves, something rare and refreshing on stage these days.

The man who played the lead character in the show co-owns a company that my wife works for. He has been living in the South for many years now, doing theatre, assisting his wife in establishing the arts school, and helping to raise their daughters. For reasons that they alone understand (or don't, but have utilized nonetheless), in about two weeks, he will be moving to NY to take a job, and will quite likely attempt to continue acting (as well he should). Knowing them as I do, I realize how challenging this must be for the family, especially the daughters, who are both quite young.

The funny thing about leaving that play last night was that, instead of feeling raw and drained from the content, I went away feeling badly that I will likely never get to know this fellow very well, as I have wanted to, or to learn much of anything from him. It made me think of my own marriage, and how it is a challenge for me to be loving towards my wife in the way she needs me to be at times. Ultimately, it is teaching me that, much like an audience member, I am too often helpless before the circumstances, unprepared for the consequences, and just generally sitting in the dark.

Has anyone else noticed that Fridays are getting pretty heavy around here?

Darts...

--My ex-girlfriend's brother was just shot and killed. It was a terrible situation, and I won't go into any detail.
--A great friend and mentor of mine has been learning things about his new spouse that have contributed to a very challenging home environment.
--Christopher Reeves, one of the few celebrities with more character off screen than on, has passed away.
Some days the small receptacle that is my brain cannot hold onto all of the somber information it has been given. It must be talked, shouted, cried, bled, written, or in some other way eked out.
Oh, I also put together one of those tests for people who know me to take and see if they know the answers, though they bear little on much of anything, and may seem almost offensively trite in light of the initial tone of this entry, but I'm including the link anyway, and if you're so inclined, please do give it a go: www.loveatlarge.friendtest.com

Relativity, indeed...

This has been a stressful week. My wife has been among the walking sick for over a week, and I am now starting to feel it myself. I bought a truck on Wednesday, and it was a grueling financial battle, and I still have to go back Saturday morning because the detail people had left by the time we finished. Instead of seeing a friend in his stage play last night, which I very much wanted to do, I was cleaning the basement floor of my wife's vocal coach as a way of bartering, and there I met something which horrifies me almost as much as spiders do--the camel cricket. If I ever have an opportunity to demand an explanation from God, it will be for these things. Anyway, I find myself with a little down time at the office this Friday afternoon, so I have done what anybody with a few extra down minutes at the end of a stressful week would do: I have gotten introspective...analytical...I have taken...ONLINE PERSONALITY TESTS.
Fascinating, these tests. You can take a test for virtually anything. You can be compared to and diagnosed as a stone, a philospher, an animal, a cartoon character, a dictator, what have you. Probably a brand of shoes, as well. I haven't dug that deep. What I have determined, with the help of many freely generated profiles, is as follows:
I am a 'guardian' of society. (I don't know which sub-type; that would have cost money).
My style of working is 'independent', 'unconventional', and 'unfettered'.
I have been compared to both Einstein and a badger.
I have been placed in a Nobel Prize winning intelligence quotient category.

If nothing else, I have to say I'm pleased about the badger connection. Too little is known of this savage and yet productive little fellow. Perhaps my lasting contribution will be to raise badger awareness, not just in those areas in which the badger is indigenous, but worldwide. They are our small, furry brothers and they need our respect and understanding. Oh, and if the Nobel people should come calling in the meantime, please refer them to this site.

There's no place like home...trust me...

I heard on the radio this morning that my home town of Flint, Michigan had made the news yet again. This time it was because the singer of a local punk band (Treephort) had stripped down to a thong on stage and proceeded to light the thong on fire, romping about, causing someone to call the authorities. Despite the guitarists attempts to explain that they were professionals, and that such a stunt was well within their experience to monitor and control, their set was cut short. No one was arrested.

You know, I'm glad for such things. I have been so tired of hearing people say--"You're from Flint? Have you seen Roger & Me?" At least I can rest assured that Flint is a town full of MANY morons, and that one day it will be known for MANY ridiculous, depressing things. Which reminds me. One day my friend Glen went to the tourist office (yes, Flint has an office of tourism) to see what they would say about the city. They spent nearly the whole time describing the lovely hotel downtown to him. This is an interesting thing. Did you ever see the Wiz? It's like Harlem with a big, expensive tower in it. I can't imagine wanting to visit a place simply to see its lovely hotel. You can't even gamble there. Not that I think a casino is a particularly desirable thing, but there is some economic benefit to that kind of big money prostitution.

In defense of Flint, I will say that are some things happening there. It has an amazing cultural center, albeit a poorly run cultural center, and there is much good theater to be seen (check out www.flintcitytheatre.com if you're so inclined). Beyond that, I see Flint as a diving board: You take your first couple of steps, you get your footing, you look around a bit, and you jump away from it, never looking back. Unless, of course, your family and friends refuse to relocate with you. In that case, you must stare into the face of the blizzard every Christmas.

The torch of academia continues to dim...

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,134288,00.html
I just found this article link in another blog. Unfortunately, I haven't figured out how to do that neat 'click the word for the link' thing that everyone else seems to be doing here. I'll probably figure it out as soon as I post this. Anyway, back to the matter at hand.
The thought of using school time and credit to learn things like 'healthy eating' and 'gardening' is interesting, if slightly useless, and it points out a trend in society that is not likely to pass on anytime soon. First off, those topics are great. Kids should learn those things. Where should they learn them? At school? No. How about at home? There was a time when kids grew up learning about plants in their own front yard, and learning about cooking and eating in their own kitchens. Who taught them? Their parents and/or siblings. All right, I know times change. I didn't grow up in a house. We had a subsidized townhouse. But there was a 2'x6' piece of dirt under the front window, and my mother put plants there (and yes, she worked and put herself through college as well). She also cooked. Why? She had a child to feed, and it's a natural instinct of the human animal to provide food for its young. All this is to say, it's too bad that when kids are not in school, they are being socialized by their peers, zombified by the television, and neglected by their parents. So, the schools attempt to weigh the burdon of doing all the work of raising healthy, happy, productive members of society (similar to the burdon the U.S. faces over policing the world), with the more preferable option of simply focusing on giving children a healthy dose of the 3 R's.

What is the outcome? I don't know.

But here's a suggestion--There are still children who receive some education at home. For them, I would say a little nutrition, a little 'plant and harvest', no sweat. If they have the right attention at home, they are probably motivated enough to fill in the gaps themselves. But, the children who have no direction at home, the ones who create the greatest strain on the educational system (and yes, it is the parents' fault, even though one day they were just kids whose parents sucked as well), they are the ones who will suffer. Why? Because by the time they graduate high school, they will only be qualified to work at McDonald's and only able to afford tenement housing. At best, they will have to dream of nutrition and gardens, faint images that vanish from their minds with the ongoing cries of the unwanted children who live in the unit next to them, children whose exasperated parents will seek solace elsewhere, leaving them with the dubious tutelage of Will and Grace.

Or it may just work itself all out.

We don't all get to grow old...

I have just found out that a young man I knew (by sight and reputation, primarily) and worked with in NYC drowned a couple of days ago. He was strong in mind and body, had a strong character, worked hard, had many friends, and probably didn't spend his last few days doing anything you would choose to spend your last days doing if you knew the deal ahead of time. Perhaps he did. I don't really know. I do know that death is being prepared for everyone, whether hastily or on the slow burner, and we will all eat a full plate of it.

That reminds me of the movie 'Krull'. There was a character, a giant, a cyclops who had traded one of his eyes for the ability to see the moment of his death. I remember him being a rather sad individual, and it makes sense, if you suddenly have half the field of vision and it is fully dominated with images of your own mortality. I also remember the moment at which he departed to go and die, saying 'it is time'. I always wondered why he didn't just try to cheat.

Given all things, I could almost understand the appeal of suicide, trying to micromanage the end of your life, if I didn't have such a strong will to live. Who wants to go during the breast stroke on a long weekend when you're just trying to unwind and prepare yourself for the next thing? Why prepare? Why unwind? Why live? To me, it's the whisper of immortality through the curtain of my daily life. It doesn't pull me away from myself. It drives me, causes me to try to create some sort of permanent spiritual architecture out of my life. It makes me want to value something like time with a child, or a selfless act. It's the ultimate question, made arguably even more ironic for its being asked in a blog: Is anybody listening to my life, and what does that mean? My thought is that my former co-worker, and many others, regardless of whether we envy them or not, have found that answer.

for Renton, Bruce, Paige, et al.