Vampires and Frankenstien

While being forced to watch "Bitten" - a lively not-too-serious venture into the vampire mythos, staring... Jason Mews... - last night with Puck and Kobold, I started trying to think of truly good vampire/occult movies that I'd seen recently. I could think of none. (Sidenote: Puck, Kobold, Mr. Josh and I are all VERY confused and scared about this "Bitten" movie. It made my brain hurt... literally. Don't watch it.)

The most recent additions to the movies I've seen that match this genre are two pieces done in the mid-to-late seventies and directed by Andy Warhol, called "Blood for Dracula" and "Flesh for Frankenstein" both of which were so appallingly awful that they went around full circle and became awesome again. Very few movies do that for me, but when one of the lines from "Flesh for Frankenstein" is so brilliant that it stays with you for months afterward, there's something to be said for the awfulness.

The quote is as follows: "Igor, sometimes, to know life, you have to f*ck death in the gall bladder."

I'm just going to let that ruminate for a minute. I want you to read it out loud (extra points if people hear you). Now, aside from the fact that that statement should indeed hurt your brain in many different ways, I'm going to try and elaborate some of the story so that you can at least appreciate the ridiculous nature of what's going on.

Picture the usual Frankenstein setup, Dr. Frank there in his lab coat, Igor off to the side, tables and tessla coils abounding. Now. Instead of the giant green monster, picture a rather good-looking blond who happens to look like Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas because she's had various limbs/parts sewn back on. Not a bad looking girl in general, and especially since she's basically a zombie.

Now, the suave and debonair Dr. Frank is intent on making a male monster for his female so they can procreate and make a pure race (wow.. sounds a lot worse when you put it in text). Anyway, Dr. Frank has the hots for girl-monster and decides that he can... um.. partake in the fruits of his labor. He doesn't want to create an impure child, though. Problem.

So he opens up a hole in her side and goes to town, ordering Igor to move the table so he doesn't have to work so hard. So here's Dr. Frank, humping away at this semi-conscious blond zombie with Igor half-watching. Once he's finished, he orders Igor to put the table back the way it was, and then comes the infamous line. Problem solved. Every one's happy, right?

Everyone except the audience... which in my case happened to be 2/3 of the boys as well as Dan. . . all of us were stunned to silence/laughing hysterically.

It's this caliber of movie that I adore. I plan to buy "Flesh for Frankenstein" as soon as I can find a readily available copy... or when I find it on Amazon.com. Either way.

"Blood for Dracula" is much the same, with violent sex scenes and frontal female nudity all around. Most of the cast from Frankenstein is also in this movie, so it makes things a little easier to handle. Frankenstein is also Dracula, go figure.

Seems that in this case, Dracula is only able to feed on the blood of a virgin. Of course, he strikes out a couple of times and finally ends up pinpointing the only sister in a house full of young fillies that happens to be a virgin. Just as he's about to descend upon her and drink her blood (blaah!), the "hero" of the story defiles her in the living room... in front of her mother. Again, there was stunned silence/hysterical laughter.

I also plan to buy this movie.

So with the reviews of these awful/wonderful movies, I suppose my real question is: "Is there a GOOD vampire/monster movie?"

I'm betting the answer is no... or maybe... there is one but it's never been seen.

Den Mother

I've had a couple of comments about the note in my profile about being a den mother for my three male roomies. This coupled with the mention of "From the top rope!" in the latest post makes me think that perhaps I should address the bizarre, sometimes-abusive and yet fulfilling relationship I have with "the boys."

When speaking the words "The Boys," the phrase sometimes includes me (I'm mostly OK with this, considering that a). I live with them and b). I've never really been considered one of the girls), when being used by outside-the-house sources, but for this post, will define the three males in my home: Josh, Puck and Kobold. Yes, I realize that 2/3 of those names don't really make a whole lot of sense. We'll not cover that and just say that it's a long story. Moving on!

It's not that I'm necessarily a den mother so much as I am the little shoulder-angel for the boys and mostly it's the fact that I still have the sensibilities of a Midwesterner and I'm enough of a giant wuss to worry about them when they do stupid things like contemplate a barfight or decide to go marauding down on the strip to terrorize the tourists.

An excerpt from a conversation last night:

"Yanno, in Nevada, so long as it's not concealed, it's legal to carry a weapon."

"Dude! We should totally take our swords next time we go down to the strip!"

. . . this sort of thing begs "Rabbit intervention" which generally means distracting them by some other idea that is equally fun but has a much lower chance of landing any one of us in the Clark County detention center.

I have known Kobold for nearly 9 years now; he's dated my best friend, I've lived with him before and we generally get on pretty well unless somehow I've failed him and he's bored. It's a bad thing when Kobold gets bored, mostly because this means that Rabbit (that's me) has to entertain him in some fashion or she ends up twisted up like a pretzel, bruised or some other such silliness. Rule for Kobold: Don't let him get bored

Puck I met a few years ago at a renn event. He and I get on very well indeed and while he doesn't share the "entertain me, I'm bored" symptoms that Kobold does, he is a big fan of WWE (or whatever the hell organization it is) wrestling and every now and then decides that I'm a good practice dummy when it comes to submission holds. Needless to say this is also no good and usually ends with me begging him to stop digging his bony elbows into my softer parts.

Josh is the third roommate, and up until recently, the one that I've had the least amount of interaction with because he worked wonky hours. That's remedied for the moment, which means that generally speaking we get to spend more time together. He's the quieter but no less devious combination of the other two. Generally, he's more laid back and definitely less prone to getting me into some sort of compromising position that involves me screaming "Pants stay on the Rabbit!"

That being said, I'll add in here that I love my roommates dearly. They take care of me, they make sure I'm safe and we have a good time together. When I try and describe our dynamic, mostly it comes down to "perverted brothers." Being that I found out that Kobold and I are somehow related back in the far branches of our family tree, it's more true than I probably am even aware of.

We're all giant perverts, which means sexual innuendo and threats run amok in the house, but I am and always have been just fine with that. Most girls would find an environment like this at least ridiculously uncomfortable if not unlivable. To them I say: "Wuss..."

On the subject of them being protective, sometimes it borders on overprotecitve (thus the initial statement that they're like brothers to me) but not in a necessarily bad way. I know they're looking out for my well-being. Because I'm that lovely Midwestern breed of naive, I'm more prone to giving money to bums, helping strangers, talking to random people, etc . . . which in this town can sometimes get a person into trouble - ie: "Why yes, Mr. Homeless Man, I'd love to help you wrangle that bag of empty cans into this dark alley."

Really, most of this is for my own good. I owe each of them a large debt of gratitude for moving me down to Las Vegas from Reno when things went south with my ex-boyfriend. They did it without question and without giving me (much) crap about being a girl and crying when I left my friends up there. I wouldn't trade any of them for anything... except those times when I'm twisted into a position that makes me scream "I'm gonna drown in my own boobs!" It's never a good thing, but I know it's all in fun. They wouldn't pick on me if they didn't care. Clearly, they care a great deal.

Most of all, it's entertaining living with these three. I often find myself wondering how I got into the situation I'm currently in. I mean that in the most immediate sense possible, not in the "gee, where would I be without these guys" but more in the "How the hell did I end up with marshmallow in my hair?" fashion. That's right. Marshmallow in the hair. It's entertaining. We cook, we clean, we go do renn events. Generally it's that weird mid-twenties family that only ever happens in the sitcoms that are moderately popular excepting that the characters are too "out there" to be real. These are the sitcoms that come close to describing my life but are too X-rated even for late night cinemax.

Conclusion: My roommates are a lot of fun, our house is never boring and I'm the little sister/sexy roomie that they'd never actually put the moves on.

No Real Danger

Yes, I watch too much television. I'm slowly sinking into the lovely spot in the couch that my fatty-butt has made and I get lulled into a sense of security that can only be disrupted by the roommates yelling "From the top rope" as they launch themselves from the far arm of the couch, elbow-first into my kidneys or by the cat deciding that I am his pet, and thus should be petting him.

While in this blissful stupor last night, I was treated to a double-header of excellent television on A&E. I'm not really sure how "Intervention" and "Obsession" are considered arts and entertainment television, but that's an entirely different rant for a different day. These two shows are absolutely fascinating. "Intervention" is about.. yeah, interventions. Last night's show was particularly interesting in the sociological/psychological fashion, though, as it was focused on a set of twins who were anorexic. Each one wanted to be "the skinny twin" and both ended up under 100 lbs. Sickening for college-aged girls who were yeah, about my height and slight of build to begin with. The thing I found most intriguing was the fact that they made rules for each other. . . You can only eat this much and can't go to the gym without me. They had become so codependent that it was really bizarre. They loved each other, slept in the same bed and all, but these two girls also HATED each other with a very bizarre passion. I simply can't imagine.

I didn't get to see the end of the show because at this point, I decided I wanted some cheesy tater tots and a chocolate milkshake from burger king. I'm a happy fatty. (You may think I added this to the story to be funny. It actually happened. My life is like a bizarro-world episode of Seinfeld.)

When I returned, summarily satiated at least for the moment, "Obsession" was on. It's a weekly show about Obsessive Compulsives and very interesting. The one I thought was most strange was this guy, we'll call him Steve, that was afraid of dying. He was very mathematically minded and catalogued all his doings: workouts, left turns, everything. He was married and had kids (wow.. that must've been awful for his wife).

I think the thing that most struck me was that he HAD to work out at least 8 times a day. 8 - times - a - day.

It boggles the mind how he had time to do anything else in his life. Most especially since he couldn't turn right. . . Like Zoolander. Yeah, I made the joke.

So I'm thinking to myself: "What job could I possibly do that would allow me to work out 8 times a day" . . . never mind the fact that I , the happy fatty, would NEVER even think of trying to work out more than once a day, excluding renn events. Apparently this guy was working on a book contract. I wish!

He got ANGRY that he could only work out twice a day - therapist's orders - and by the end of the show had managed to only conquer turning left and taking the obsession of working out down to five times a day. He also still takes over 2,000 pills a month (hello, can we say ridiculously expensive!?) to make sure he's healthy. I just want to impart here that if he DOES manage somehow to live forever, he's going to be homeless for all the money he spent on pills, gym memberships and eating healthy.

Conclusion: If you're an out of work author, you run the risk of becoming a death-obsessed compulsive exercise-a-holic. Note to self: Never consider writing as a career path.

Deprogramming

I've recently noticed a push by ad campaigns to return to the values of our grandparents, to cherish the things that were important to them and to make sure that in these "tough economic times" that we enjoy the littler things in life; the simple things (I listen to far too much television, and I absorb the ads far too readily, even when I'm only half paying attention to any of it). While this is all well and good as far as sounding idealistic and lovely, I'm of the opinion that there will never be any such thing as a return to the good old days of moral imperatives and scrimping and saving. We're too far gone from that already.

I think the best we can do is hope for people to realize that they absolutely do not need the $400 iPhone with the $200/month media plan so they can email pictures of their new pedicures instantly to all their girlfriends so they can be super jealous about the little flowers they got painted on their big toes.

And I said hope for it . . . we all know it's not going to happen.

Especially not considering the last post about $100 jeans with granny-knit all over them.

Moving on, though, I'm rather fascinated with why they're running this campaign to begin with. Generally speaking, I'm going to say that their goal is to get people to think about values and saving money and to remind them that their grandparents made it through tough times, which means that they can make it too. Generally. More likely is the fact that most of these ads are being run by banks, life insurance companies and things of that nature, which can only lead me to the conlusion that they're in it to make a quick buck. Fair play on them, preying on the country's insecurities. I'd do it too if I were independently wealthy.

Moreover, I think the point I'm trying to make is this: Why not? Why don't we give this whole 'living clean and enjoying the small things' a try? Seems simple enough. Grab a beer, park yourself on the lawn and watch the kids play in the street. My neighbors do it all the time (sans lawn, as no one here really has a lawn so much as a collection of dirts and a palm tree or two) and seem to be perfectly content to do so.

So why can't we just deprogram for a minute or two? Step away from the cell phone, go outside and away from the TV. Don't bother with going and doing something, just ... take a walk or enjoy the stars (if you're lucky enough to be able to see them).

I distinctly remember one of the most purely peaceful moments of my life was standing on the peir at Grand Haven, staring out into the lake. I was perfectly quiet for about half an hour, just watching the water turn pink and purple with the sunset, listening to the sky-rats and breathing in the clean, wet air. Every now and then when I get really stressed, I remember that moment as best I can and take a deep breath.

It seems to me as I think about it, that it's the quiet moments like that that seem to be the most worthwhile. The long hours I spent staring out the window at the dorm room, at the maple tree there as it changed colors, dropped its leaves and started growing them again. The moments I spent at camp trying to memorize the way the lake looked through the trees. The years I spent enjoying the drive home, through the intermittent canopy of leaves that arched over the dirt road.

I have the sneaking suspicion that the kids growing up now are going to remember things differently; their first game system, the way the sun used to come in the window and throw off the TV's picture, their first cell phone with a camera.

Conclusion: I am better than the kids now-adays. They are spoiled, but only slightly moreso than I am. Kids today, I'm tellin' ya.