So, yea. It was my bright idea to do 31 days of horror and my better half, the man who is always supportive of even the slightest motivation I have (“Yay! You’re gonna take a bath today!! Woohoo!) accepts responsibility alongside me and devotes himself to watching movies and working on reviews pretty much daily for an entire month. Things are buzzing along nicely, I’m motivated and truly feeling rejuvenated, reborn in the written word.
As any student of history, Taoism, anyone depressed or smiling, any believers in Murphy’s Law or anyone who has a pulse can tell you; change is inevitable. It falls upon our shoulders to decide whether or not we take the opportunity to recoil or rejoice.
I recoiled. Hard. Smack in the middle of my writing comeback I get sucker-punched in the face with a nasty case of bronchitis. I’m fevered, I can’t breathe, I have the mucus-y cough of infected lungs, my entire body aches and my head feels as if Michael Ironside and Stephen Lack are playing monkey-in-the-middle with me Scanners-style. (keep in mind I haven’t been sick with anything more than a cold in 15 years so my dick is profoundly in the dirt)
Determined to carry on, to not be beaten by disease, I forced myself to shit something out on Frankenstein ’80. It had been days since I felt pacified by drink and while I recognized its absence, it felt more like a lover briefly departing bed but dutifully leaving behind that familiar warmth complete with promises of return. I won’t lie, being perpetually hopped up on a variety of OTC and pharmaceuticals helped subdue my desire.
But what was I to do now? I barely made it through Frankenstein ’80 and I could only write that because I had already seen it a million times! I had no attention span for a movie! I know because I tried watching tons of them! I made it 1/3 intoHorror of Dracula before getting pissed off because OF COURSE HARKER IS GOING TO STAKE THE BITCH WITH THE WICKED 1800’s MULLET BEFORE DRACULA! DUH! And I think to myself, what the fuck is wrong with me?! I love Hammer! Why am I reacting this way?
Still fighting with every ounce of courage I can muster I slip in Psycho 2 thinking “I remember liking this, ez pz, review 1,2,3! No problem!” While the movie managed to hold my interest I couldn’t find the words to write a proper review on it. Partially due to my disease leaving me at best apathetic, but who can blather on and on when one sentence will suffice?
Psycho 2 : Cannot escape the shadow of its predecessor to be fully realized as a horror film in its own right.
Days have ticked by, a week now and Raz has been so accommodating picking up my slack. My antibiotics are gone, I’m starting to feel a little better although I’m only eating bits of bland food, I can’t even think about cigarettes (which are typically treated as a combination of reward/dessert/the only thing that focuses my concentration) and I’m still struggling with lethargy. Did I mention that it’s been an alcohol-free week? I don’t think I’ve experienced an alcohol free weekend, let alone week. My b.a.c. is so low I’m probably legally sober again. How in the hell is a girl supposed to get by with a healthy liver and a clear mind?! The panic is starting to kick in: it’s been too long, my body will shut down without booze, how am I supposed to do this sober? I have to live? Wait. You want me to get up and do what? You can watch movies and write sober? That’s a real thing?
I can do this. Just put in The Omen! That sounds good doesn’t it? Calm down, breathe, relax. Gregory Peck, classic, the antichrist, some annoying little tit, cmon! Nothing to it!
The Omen: Suffers from British-Syndrome. Poor pacing coupled with playing it too safe. I would’ve been more entertained had they gone balls-out and had Peck don a dress and eat bangers and mash for 111 minutes.
Aghhhh! I can’t do it! Everything sucks! The influx of disease and lack of spirits has forced me to wander a negative wasteland where I am miserable and alone with only my acerbic wit to comfort me!
Twice Dead: The tubby bouncer from Roadhouse (Travis McKenna; Cheerleader Camp, Ed Gein) Jill Whitlow (Cynthia Cronenberg from Night of the Creeps) and a boom mic are the most notable things about this movie.
Night of the Lepus: I suffered unbearably for 20 minutes but that can’t compare to what those helpless rabbits had to go through; a big “FUCK YOU” to everyone involved.
Murder Set Pieces: I can’t imagine how awful it is being Nick Palumbo; forever under the misguided notion that everything you do is brilliant.
I tried, my God, did I try! Everything left me cold and indifferent. I was losing all hope that I would ever want to write again. Until on that 13th day I decided to push myself in another direction – towards the bottle.
How can I sit around snotting and sneezing all day, whining and feeling like shit when what I clearly need is hair of the dog that hasn’t bitten me in weeks?! I’m familiar enough with this game when it’s comprised of regular players but when you go throwing in a rookie malady you skew the odds; you fuck me up.
Chilled wine? Check.
From Dusk Til Dawn 2: Texas Blood Money? Check.
My taste buds are coming back and the moment that sweet elixir hits them memories flush through my brain – it’s an acid trip, it’s gel-caps in the West Virginia mountains – it’s 2 years of never-ending blotter because I knew the maker – it’s opening all of my mom’s cabinets and staring at the way she organizes everything and understanding her to her core – it’s conversations that take the shape of Q-bert steps –it’s huffing gas and smoking cigarettes – it’s mushrooms and laughing until you cry because someone shit a plate of pure pancake happiness in front of you – it’s the mysteries of all the world that take shape long enough for me to understand and then POOF! Like that….they’re gone.
I drink deep and make mental love to my long, lost friend; the one constant in my life; the only one who’s never disappointed me.
From Dusk Til Dawn 2- Texas Blood Money : Far too much talent involved for it to have turned out so undeniably and unapologetically lackluster. Fails at even the basest of levels – poor writing and disastrous direction take what could’ve been a good time and turn it into an embarrassing, hokey fiasco. I can only hope that my love of libation will allow me to purge this from my memory with breakneck speed.
Perhaps the occasional debilitating sickness provides the requisite break one needs to get their bearings and toss out the “old reliables” in one’s repertoire.
Or maybe everything just goes better with booze.
Official COSDS Nunspank Rating:
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Jocelyn lives on 35 acres of woodland in an undisclosed Appalachian location. When not boozing it up or fighting the power she's tending her organic garden or collecting punk/soundtrack albums. Her best friends walk on 4 legs. She does not own a cell phone.