A Horror Film Mecca
My husband is so kind, so amazing and loves me so much that he has been known to force me to go on vacations with him against my will.
Which at times can include kicking and screaming until it is recommended I be shot with a tranquilizer gun so I don’t swallow my tongue, foam at the mouth and start kicking out windows.
This all might seem disturbing if not for the fact that (1) my life insurance policy sucks; (2) I’m afraid of flying; (3) in five years I have not willingly left my children for more than 62 hours; and (4) my husband is really good at pretending to be being nice to me.
(Oh, also, be encouraged by the fact that Jules from Go Guilty Pleasures! survived a suspicious hot air balloon plot trip with her husband.)
So recently my husband surprised me by announcing he had booked us a flight to Denver and a stay in a mountainside condo in Estes Park.
And when I say “surprised” I mean like the part in Pulp Fiction where Vincent is sitting on the toilet and Butch walks in and blows him away.
I love being surprised.
Anyway, this part of the trip wasn’t bad.
This part wasn’t either. (I thought I was pointing to mountains but instead I could be flipping off motorists.)
This part was pretty great too, minus the snow in my eyeballs part and minus the standing very close to the edge of the Rocky Mountains part.
And, as an animal lover, I couldn’t help loving a city that has desegregated its wildlife creatures. They’re like real human citizens to the point where squirrels can share family campsites and elk can ride the same theme park rides.
Guys, they’re tearing down social walls in Estes Park. It’s all happening.
But this part? This part I didn’t like. This part I didn’t see coming.
I thought Danny was just riding his big wheel around in an abandoned hotel. But then ghosts of murdered twins appear out of nowhere at the end of a hallway.
Sort of like The Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado appeared out of nowhere as we were driving into town.
I had no idea until we drove past it that it was located in Estes Park. How did I not know this? Being that The Shining is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen about the scariest hotel I’ve ever heard of, you’d think I would’ve mapped it out so as never to end up there.
The original 1980 movie wasn’t filmed here (the forgettable 1997 made-for-TV version was). But Stephen King’s stay at The Stanley Hotel inspired him to write the book. He stayed in the infamous room #217 on a night when the hotel was cleared out for the season. Perfect.
Oh, and the hotel is supposedly haunted. Of course it is.
Do I look like the devil here? I sort of do. When I saw this picture, I thought, I look like the devil here. Am I possessed?
Or maybe it’s just a really, really bad picture of me. Because I’m known to have really, really bad pictures on occasion, occasions that I cannot always attribute to being possessed.
Unless by “possessed” you mean “high on Bactine and sugar-coated corn flakes”.
You may be disappointed to learn we didn’t stay overnight at The Stanley Hotel. Are you kidding me? I would never. I couldn’t. No way. Never.
Although, it did make it a bit less scary to see that The Stanley Hotel really likes to play up The Shining thing. Like it’s some kind of theme park. Only, elks cannot attend this theme park. Something about how they get possessed and then foam at the mouth and kick out windows.
Cheesy $15.00 ghost tours? Check.
Movie posters hanging in random places like the restrooms? Check.
Autographed photos of The Shining cast members? Check.
I was touched to learn that “Danny,” the psychic boy in the movie, is actually named “Danny”.
Although, disappointingly, “Tony,” the little boy who lived in Danny’s mouth, the voice who talked through Danny’s finger, is actually named “Steve”.
Also, I hear he’s not really that helpful in times of crisis and is actually a total jerkoff.
And that is exactly why I never like to look behind the curtain.
Well, because of that . . .
. . . and also because of this.
What the . . . Friday?
*What the…Friday? is a weekly Friday feature in which I resuscitate a video relic from the swampy pits of Pop Culture Wasteland.*
Today: What the Ray Stevens?
In 1992 the commercial for the Ray Stevens Comedy Video Classics hit the airwaves and my life was forever changed.
Back then I remember seeing Ray Stevens every day. Sometimes he came on between every commercial break of a half-hour television show. Sometimes he interrupted Coach. Sometimes he interrupted Murphy Brown. Sometimes he interrupted Roseanne. No one interrupts Roseanne. I hated Ray Stevens.
I grew up in Nebraska. So I likely lived among Ray Stevens’ targeted demographic. If you grew up in San Francisco, chances are you never saw this. And chances are you think Ray Stevens is my cousin. And chances are he is.
In 1992 I was 16 and my humor was of the bottom-dwelling variety. Meaning it revolved around bottoms.
Or more specifically — sphincters.
A sphincter says what? What? Exactly. “Comedy gold,” said 1992-Angie.
But even 16-year-old-me didn’t find Ray Stevens funny. And that’s very telling. And that’s when I learned a valuable lesson. Humor is not subjective. There is right and wrong. There is hierarchy. And Ray Stevens is at the bottom. He’s at the bottom of the totem pole. His is the totem face that looks like a bottom. Or more specifically — a sphincter.
I couldn’t help but wonder what became of Ray Stevens today. So I tracked him down. Turns out he is something of a big shot. Turns out he is a big sphincter. Here is his website. And he’s right now running a Tea Party Special. Yes. That’s what he calls it. Order now and while supplies last you’ll get a free flag lapel pin.
I guess this is what patriotism looks like. A sphincter.
***
This post goes out to my bloggy friend Les of BestBathroomBooks (who never thought, but likely always hoped, he’d one day see the word sphincter on my blog) as he plans his departure from the blogosphere. Many happy poops to you, Les.
Popped Collars and Bolo Ties
Dynomite! is an ongoing segment where I publish submitted photos from the ’70s, ’80s or ’90s of readers demonstrating their fashion A-game. All accepted entries published on my blog will later compete in a Dynomite! All Stars competition like this one here.
So you might have gathered by the title of this post that I have something very special in store for you today.
Today it’s my pleasure to share with you my newest Dynomite! contender, Lenore from Lenore’s Thoughts Exactly (go visit her blog here but then come back, or at least write to let me know you arrived safely).
I love this photo. It makes me feel fun. It makes me feel fun in a Sweet Valley High fabricated adolescence in the midst of dramatic teen love triangles type of way.
Everyone is having fun with their tapered jeans, sticky bangs and tripped-out hormones. And even though someone got her class ring stuck in another someone’s Aqua Net Head (which often happened back then), it’s all good here in 1986.
Look at Lenore at far right. Can’t you see she’s a trailblazer? And I’m not just talking about the steam engines blazing across ol’ Train Track Mouth. Look at her teal pants! Look at her yellow socks! Look at her popped collar! Amid a sea of denim and pastel, Lenore is certainly no shrinking violet-tipped white carnation. I wouldn’t expect anything less from the likes of Lenore.
Now compare that Lenore above with this one here.
Here Lenore is forcing a smile as she puts her best stripes forward. And yet I’m certain she’s crying on the inside. Is she sad because Wendy’s stopped serving New Coke? Is she sad because her shimmer shadow doesn’t quite reach her eyebrows?
I’m disturbed by Fast Food Demon #1 who is ominously sitting watch behind Lenore. Despite a lot of monkeying with this photo, I could not get this dark presence to appear as a human.
And then, why are there white Scooby Doo eyes above Fast Food Demon #1?
So many sad and strange things going on. But you know what? When the world bottoms out like it surely has here, I thank God for ol’ sturdy, dependable bolo tie to help us keep our wits about us. Yes, my good friend bolo tie always restores a sense of order to the surrounding madness.
It was difficult for me to select which of Lenore’s photos to use. Both were indeed Dynomite! material. So I’m going to do something a little different this round. I’m going to ask you to vote to help me decide — yes, cast your votes before this time next week. The winner will advance to the final round competition.
(Did you hear that? The winner advancing thing? Just then I sounded so Ed McMahon on Star Search that my heart is now pounding with excitement.)
But, wait! Before you vote, I want to see what you learned from our last Dynomite! edition. Here I’ve called up The Band Uniform Rule to help you decide which Lenore is the most Dynomite!
(I regret to inform you that votes for the band uniform will not be accepted.)
Our House
Blame Our House, not my house, for the rise of Shannen Doherty.
I hope this won’t disappoint you.
Because this is not a post about Chad Allen. Or even Wilford Brimley for that matter.
This is actually about our house — my family’s house. And about my childhood house too.
Maybe you’ve heard I’m sentimental?
I once wrote a post entirely on baloney sandwiches. Which I haven’t eaten since 1989. There. See?
And you don’t even know the half of it.
Take for example, our house. Our beloved house. We bought it soon after we were married. My husband was in grad school and waiting tables. I was working as a legislative aide, making $21,000 a year.
We fell in love with our house right away. You just know, you know?
And ten years, five promotions, four three pets and two kids later, here we are. Still.
We’ve tweaked this and that. We’ve remodeled, built in and added on. We’ve even talked about adding up — but then we’d be insane. But speaking of insane, we’ve also added an above-ground storm shelter — for the woman with tornado-induced PTSD.
We love our house. We love the midcentury fireplace and the Dick Van Dyke Show flavor. We love the tree-lined yard and the neighbors who talk over fences.
But we don’t love the quirky oven and the stove burners that fold out from the wall. And we don’t love the thought of tearing them out and spending two months eating from a microwave.
Our house is only one and a half bath, meaning we share a bathroom with booger-encrusted children. There’s no basement either, so no place for hoarding unsightly crap. (Which is what basements are for. Crap.)
Our house also smells like old people. No matter how many candles we burn. And, worse, we don’t even notice it smells like old people — until we come home after a long vacation.
But yet it always still feels good to come home.
We’ve thought about moving out and moving on. We don’t have to sell the house, we tell ourselves. We can keep it and rent it out — a win-win!
But then there’s the thought of someone trashing our wood floors or some snot-nosed brat writing “fart” on the wall — and it stops us right in our tracks.
Do not let this child live in your home. [Image source: filmcritic.com]
Damn straight.
Maybe all of this house nonsense has to do with the emotional baggage I still lug around.
Long, long ago, this house broke my heart.
It might’ve been my first love. And I don’t think I ever got over it.
My family moved in when I was three, about the moment I learned to ride a tricycle. We moved out when I was nine, about the moment I learned that life can suck.
Here is the house where I learned to ride a two-wheeler.
Here is the house where my brother learned to ride a 10-speed.
I lost my first tooth here. (Well, not right here.) Which I’m happy to show you right here.
And right here again. (My hands are next to my face to remind you to look at my mouth.)
I made my first best friend here. She lived one house away. We’d play and fight and play and fight, with many walks back and forth through the neighbors’ yard in between playing and fighting. And biting. (The biting was all her.)
Here is the house where we took shelter on the night a tornado touched down. Here is where the tornado hit. Here is my mom. (Hi, Mom.)
And here is where we rebuilded and, later, repainted it blue.
Here is where I had my ceremonial send-off before my first day of school.
And here is where family gathered — family I haven’t seen in years.
And I haven’t even mentioned all the memories from the inside of the house.
So when I think about moving from our house today, I don’t think so much about leaving walls and a fireplace or even the quirky stove I resent. I think about leaving us, the lives we’ve created here the past ten years.
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we need to find a bigger house. Maybe I’ll change my mind soon. Maybe I’ll get over it, you know, all this nostalgia gobbledygook. Maybe I need to find a hobby, a thing to fill this sentimental spot in my heart.
Maybe I need to take up scrapbooking?
And, hey, I need a basement for that crap.
What the . . . Friday?
*Pssst. In case you didn’t catch me last Friday, What the…Friday? is a new weekly feature I’m offering every Friday (yes, Friday!) in which I will resuscitate a video relic from the swampy pits of Pop Culture Wasteland.*
Today: What the Win, Lose or Draw?
What started out as a mission to prove to my husband that Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson were once married (!) — ended up here. Win, Lose or Draw.
I often mourn the passing of the Golden Age of Game Shows. But I don’t mourn the loss of this show.
Okay, I loved the show. I watched it daily. And I loved to draw. I was good at drawing. So Win, Lose or Draw played right to my belief that The (Art) Geeks Shall Inherit the Earth.
And then, who didn’t love seeing Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise make-out?
Everybody.
In retrospect, what I see now is a show that I didn’t like after all. Because it made me uncomfortable. Tampons falling onto the floor in the middle of a the grocery store checkout lane when you’re grabbing for your checkbook uncomfortable.
Because Win, Lose or Draw followed the same wretched formula of a few other Golden Age game shows, like Super Password and $10,000 Pyramid and Hollywood Squares. You take some celebrities (I use the term losely) and then you throw in some regular Joes trying to win regular money. Which always seemed to be insulting to the regular Joes because the celebrities didn’t need to win money. They were just there for self-promotion social masturbation fun.
And then the celebrities had to pretend that they actually gave a hoot about the regular Joes. And they also had to pretend to be excited about the fact that a regular Joe just won $3,000, which would’ve barely covered a celebrity’s Burbank hotel expense.
Win, Lose or Draw was the worst offender of this Golden Age formula.
Because Win, Lose or Draw actually sandwiched the regular Joes on a dumpy fraternity house couch right in between the celebrities. And then the celebrities were in manic performance mode and yukking it up with their BFFs. And inside jokes were made and couch pillows were flung and Betty White pinched Dom DeLuise’s butt and uproarious laughter ensued and all the while I felt so completely awkward watching the regular Joes who just sort of sat there with strained smiles, pretending they were in on it all, but they weren’t really in on it all. At all.
(Did you notice that Win, Lose or Draw sounds like it contains the word “loser”? This was intentional.)
So Win, Lose or Draw was sort of like in junior high school when you’d sit at the cool kids’ table for just one day. Because the cool kids decided it was Be Nice to a (Art) Geek Day and, sure, you could join them for tater tot casserole, but all the while they’d be yukking it up about their boy-girl parties and New Kids on the Block concerts and things you didn’t understand or know about and then you’d smile and laugh uncomfortably like, yeah, I’m in on this too, I’m just one of them. I don’t have any clue what’s going on here, I don’t know what a “spin the bottle” is but, yeah, I’m certain I’m just one of them.
But who the hell are you kidding? You weren’t. And you’d never be. And Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson can suck it.
What the Friday was I even talking about?
Oh, yes, Win, Lose or Draw. Loved it.
