In Boozo Veritas #71: MEMO from the In Boozo Veritas Offices

22 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Film, In Boozo Veritas

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Eyes Wide Shit, In Boozo Veritas, John King, Stanley Kubrick, Teege Braune

In Boozo Veritas #71 by Teege Braune

MEMO from the In Boozo Veritas Offices

To: John King, Host of The Drunken Odyssey

From: Teege Braune, Author of In Boozo Veritas

Subject: The Greatest Film Every Made or An Average Tuesday for John King?

Date: December 22, 2014

You’ve called me out! It’s true that I have been hallucinating more and more regularly. Why, early this very week I had the strangest dream that you and I were being serenaded by an adorably sad, seven foot tall clown with a golden voice. What a strange but delightful vision. My pharmacologist warned me not to eat those mushrooms growing around the back of my house, but damn it, they just taste so good on pizza.

That being said, I feel certain that at least some of the details of my last letter took place in reality. For example: your neighbor Mrs. Thorndike had asked me not to use her real name so that the world would not be privy to her libertine activities, and while it’s true that her parties are not exactly orgies, but more akin to friendly afternoon games of bridge, most of us in attendance wear masks and a few of us (no names) do get naked. I used Nuala Windsor as a convenient alias, but alas, I chose too obvious a ruse. Nevertheless, it is you who has exposed a kind, if eccentric, elderly woman. Let that be on your own conscience.

The fact is, that as I read the details of your attack on Eyes Wide Shut, I kept thinking, John’s right! But where you groan and shake your head in agonized disbelief, I find myself filled with delight. Rainbow motif symbolizing adultery and sexual excess? Yes, I’ll take it! Proliferation of characters passing through thresholds and dreamy, drawn-out dialogue? Please, give me more! A highly stylized and antiseptic orgy that, despite the outrageous amount of nudity, is completely lacking in anything that could be considered erotic? I can’t get enough of the stuff!

It isn’t necessarily easy for me to say exactly what I love about EWS, but no matter how many times I watch it, whenever I hear Shostakovich’s Jazz Suite, Waltz No. 2, my analytic and aesthetic mind begins whirring with the possibility of making new connections, of reentering this strange universe that is both exotic and present. I never ever grow tired of viewing this bizarre and mysterious cinematic objet d’art. Watching the film after reading your critique, I’ve come to the conclusion that trying to convince another person that this film is a masterpiece, especially someone as intellectually gifted and adept at analysis as yourself, is simply a foolish endeavor. Which is not say EWS is a guilty pleasure. Far from it. You simply appreciate the oddball genius of Stanley Kubrick or you do not.

One place in which I must disagree with you, however, is your assertion that EWS is a projection of a “repressive Puritanical libido.” Tom Cruise’s Dr. Bill Hartford’s never-realized sexual misadventure is more complicated than an attempted escape from inhibition. After all, he and his wife Alice seem to share an active sex life.

What sends Dr. Hartford down the rabbit hole is not Alice’s confession about the naval officer, but rather the realization that his wife is a sexually autonomous person and not merely an ornament reflective of his social status and object of male sexual desire. His emasculation is not so much a result of learning that his wife once wanted another man, but that women are tempted by sex at all.

Instead of handling this emotional trauma the way one might in the real world, either by seeking marital counseling or engaging in some kind of midlife crisis, Bill enters a psychological labyrinth inside a dreamscape version of New York City that begins with an oddly inverted version of his own situation. A deceased patient’s daughter, who looks remarkably like his own wife Alice, spontaneously and without warning professes her love to Bill despite her engagement to a man who looks remarkably like Bill himself, the bright opulent rooms juxtaposed with the same dull blue light seeping in from the windows.

Bill attempts to redeem his masculinity throughout a series of increasingly odder scenarios that culminate in a masked orgy, a place where women are reduced to literally faceless objects of pleasure, but just as his near temptation by the models at Ziegler’s party was interrupted before he was able to go where the rainbow ends, every encounter fails to culminate in sexual union or restore the shattered order to his world. He returns from this journey to discover another man’s face beside his wife in his bed. Of course, it is own face, his mask from the orgy, his own illusion occupying the place of his real self.

All boundaries have been subverted, the lines between dream and wakefulness, fantasy and reality, and representation and that which is being represented.

But it’s like I said: you either dig that sort of thing or you don’t. I doubt I’ve convinced you that you enjoy a movie you’ve previously called “a pretentious waste of time.” I can offer one last detail, however, that I think you might appreciate. This theme of representation even seeped into the actual production of EWS. You mentioned you recognized the location of Rainbow Rentals as a cross street between Sixth Avenue and Washington Square Park when, in fact, Kubrick’s phobia of flying meant that none of the movie is filmed on location.

Instead a reconstruction of New York City was built in a sound studio in London. Kubrick’s eye for detail was as unquestionably sharp late in life as it had ever been before.

While my defense may have fallen on deaf ears, I will say, if nothing else, I take pride in the fact that I was able to force you to endure a second viewing of EWS and that the wonderful music of Jocelyn Pook was redeemed in your eyes.

Only now as I reach my conclusion does it occur to me that maybe I have missed your point altogether, and perhaps your frustrations with EWS are much more basic: simply put that a film climaxing in a bizarre orgy will never impress you, a man for whom masked orgies have simply become a routine detail of any humdrum Tuesday evening. Enjoy your orgies, my friend. I hope to see you soon.

_______

Teege Braune (episode 72, episode 75, episode 77, episode 90, episode 102, episode 122, episode 129) is a writer of literary fiction, horror, essays, and poetry. Recently he has discovered the joys of drinking responsibly. He may or may not be a werewolf.

In Boozo Veritas #70: MEMO from The Secret HQ of The Drunken Odyssey

15 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in In Boozo Veritas

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Arthur Schnitlzer, Eyes Wide Shut, György Ligeti, Jocelyn Pook, John King, Stanley Kubrick, Teege Braune, Tom Cruise

In Boozo Veritas #70 by John King

MEMO from The Secret HQ of The Drunken Odyssey

To: Teege Braune, Author of In Boozo Veritas

From: John King, Host of The Drunken Odyssey

Subject: The Unspeakable Awfulness of Eyes Wide Shut (Redux)

Date: December 15, 2014

Teege, I am more worried about you than ever.

First, my villa complex uses garbage cans. There is no dumpster. This leads me to believe that you are either hallucinating again or else you are bothering even more strangers with your relentless obsession.

Of course, one might reasonably conclude that the reality of one night, or a handful of nights, let alone a whole lifetime, is not the truth, just as no dream is ever only a dream. Still, I am worried about your fantasmagorias about attending orgies with elderly women, especially if they (the orgies) are as boring as the one depicted in Eyes Wide Shut.

Second, you know as well as I, alas, do, that the preposterously-named Nuala Windsor is a character in that cinematic abomination. Either your movie-watching companion was having you on, or maybe you knew but played along, eager to blur the lines of reality and boredom the ways EWS does.

My neighbor is Mrs. Thorndike, and she’ll be crushed to know that you’ve been watching VHS movies with another elderly woman down the street or wherever. She asked me to tell you to call her. You’ve made things awkward between me and my neighbors, Thomas.

Third, I checked the DVD out of the library and watched it for the first time in fourteen years, and, ouch, EWS seemed even more unbearable this time.

Eyes Wide Shut should have been called Tom Cruise Walks In and Out of (Mostly Opulent) Rooms.

This two-and-a-half hour movie would have had a running time of about seventeen minutes if Kubrick had used jump-cuts instead of lavishing steady cam footage onto every entrance and exit. I wonder if Kubrick saw Scorcese’s two major steady cam shots of entrances in Goodfellas and thought, “I will use that in every scene, despite there being no coherent story-enhancing purpose of such cinematography.”

And here is where you might pull the thesaurus down and tell me that such footage represents the liminal, and that such representation is essential to the themes of EWS, in particular the in-between state between reality and dream, and the in-between state between reality and perception.

But there is no liminal state between boredom and boredom, Teege. The liminal is a lazy metaphor, the expression of a lack of anything real to communicate.

The aging and ailing Kubrick must also have been reading too much Harold Pinter and decided to out-Pinter Pinter, because the amount of pauses is excruciating. If he used jump cuts and lost the pauses, the running time of EWS comes down to about seven minutes.

And when the dialogue finally comes, often it is delivered with Quaalude-grade stupefaction.

When the plot drudges towards Tom Cruise finally about to crash the black mass orgy, we ooze into the totally-essential tuxedo and costume rental scene, where we get to meet Mr. Milich of Rainbow Tuxedo Rentals, and learn about his tragic bald spot.

The name of the rental place–considering the barely cryptic innuendo of Nuala Windsor earlier in the film, whose sexual predilection almost makes her either a succubus or a reality television star–is so symbolic as to be nauseating, especially since I used to walk by this actual location on my way to classes at NYU. This is on one of the cross streets between Sixth Avenue and Washington Square Park in the West Village.

When Milich enters his office rather late at night, he catches two men with an underaged girl, all of them in states of undress. He attacks the men and screams at the girl, who’s either his daughter or ward, who runs to Tom Cruise for protection. She then immediately casts lusting looks at her new protector like some Lolita, without the nuance or ambiguity Nabokov gave his nymphette.

The point seems to be to call into question what one sees, and to wonder if the world is so ubiquitously corrupt, or if one’s imagination–if one’s own repressive Puritanical libido–is being projected dangerously out onto the world.

In the fucking West Village in the latter half of the twentieth century, one of the least sexually inhibited locales in America. What next, a closeted gay man living in San Francisco who wants to come out, but is afraid the people in his city won’t accept his sexual orientation?

If the movie’s setting was Indianapolis or Chicago, the profoundly nuerotic sexual anxiety might make more sense.

Probably Arthur Schnitlzer’s Dream Story (Traumnovelle), the source material for EWS, makes more sense: Vienna in the first quarter of the twentieth century.

Milich, as a proud business owner, should have been the main character, as I liked him, his daughter, and the two Asian men with her were more interesting than everyone else in the movie.

It turns out, Jocelyn Pook’s music is wonderful; it reminds me of her music for the film of The Merchant of Venice. The annoying music from EWS (sampled and repeated for maximum annoyance as a tone poem of boredom) is György Ligeti’s “Musica Ricercata II: Mesto, Rigido e Cerimonale,” which I think translates to “Can some shadow demon please help me tune this piano?”

This movie has scarred me with its awfulness, dear friend. Please explain how you see it as anything other than a pretentious waste of time, the silly effort of a former cinema master pretending that he still has something to say.

_______

John King (Episode, well, all of them) is a podcaster, writer, and ferret wrangler.

In Boozo Veritas #69: MEMO from The In Boozo Veritas Offices

08 Monday Dec 2014

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In Boozo Veritas #69 by Teege Braune

MEMO from The In Boozo Veritas Offices

To: John King, Host of The Drunken Odyssey

From: Teege Braune, Author of In Boozo Veritas

Subject: An invitation to a masked ball à la Eyes Wide Shut

Date: December 8, 2014

You are a close and personal friend, and I hope you know that it is with the utmost respect that I ask you to refrain from making negative comments (as you did in your last memo) about the precious Mrs. Windsor, your own neighbor with whom you have never attempted to engage in conversation, and who has, incidentally, become a sort of grandmotherly figure in my own life.

I first met Mrs. Windsor the same night we recorded our St. Patrick’s Day Drunken Odyssey roundtable, episode number 90. As we were parting ways after our lively discussion and successful bout of drinking, I noticed an elderly woman struggling with a couple over-filled garbage bags. As I assisted the woman to the dumpster she told me her name was Nuala Windsor and that she emigrated to the United States from England. Over the course of our conversation several mutual interests were uncovered including the poetry of Ovid, renaissance bronzes, and the films of Stanley Kubrick, in particular his masterpiece Eyes Wide Shut.

Since that evening we have spent many wonderful afternoons together sipping lemonade, watching our favorite film, and picking out the esoteric imagery hidden within. Mrs. Windsor has lived a long and adventurous life. Her stories are as thrilling and numerous as her wisdom is vast. I would happily deign to share my personal friend with you if you were at some point to make a neighborly effort with a kind and sweet, old lady.

One more thing: Mrs. Windsor wishes for me to apologize to you on her behalf. Her concern is that some of her parties might have kept her neighbors awake late at night. While it could surprise some that such a adorable woman would have interests that lean towards the libertine, I can tell you from personal experience that Mrs. Windsor’s parties are indeed some of the most enjoyable I’ve had the pleasure to attend. Here’s a picture of my friend Dave and I at her last soiree. I believe Mrs. Windsor is wearing the domino mask at 4:30 clockwise.

Next time instead of banging on the door at five am like old stick in the mud, just throw on a tuxedo, a black cloak, and a mask and join us in our revelry. The password for admittance is always “Fidelio,” and don’t worry if someone asks you the password for the house; they’re just messing with you. I guarantee you’ll have a good time, and who knows? Perhaps it will change your perception on Eyes Wide Shut and force you to realize that this film, which you call, “turgid psychosexual melodrama that is part architecture porn, part Noh play (maybe it’s just the acting), and part predictable postmodern conspiracy narrative,” is actually depicting events that take place closer to home than you know.

_______

In Boozo Veritas #68: MEMO from The Secret HQ of The Drunken Odyssey

01 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Film, In Boozo Veritas

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Eyes Wide Shut, Jocelyn Pook, John King, New York City, Nicole Kidman, Orgies, Stanley Kubrick, Teege Braune, Tom Cruise

In Boozo Veritas #68 by John King

MEMO from The Secret HQ of The Drunken Odyssey

To: Teege Braune, Author of In Boozo Veritas

From: John King, Host of The Drunken Odyssey

Subject: The Unspeakable Awfulness of Eyes Wide Shut

Date: December 1, 2014

Teege, this obsession is unworthy of you, dear friend.

A year ago, on the platform of the Grand Floridian monorail station, with Christmas tunes oozing from the eaves, and huge wreathes prematurely dangling, you extolled Stanley Kubrick’s final cinematic hurrah, that turgid psychosexual melodrama that is part architecture porn, part Noh play (maybe it’s just the acting), and part predictable postmodern conspiracy narrative.

Tom Cruise’s tortured innocence as the private physician of the one percent was unbearable.

The notion that there is a privileged subculture in modern New York City so sexually repressed that only a black mass-style orgy (or is it an orgy-style black mass?) could liberate their Puritanical souls is ludicrous. Like the show Friends, Eyes Wide Shut imagines a New York City unpopulated by those actual New Yorkers who live there.

Nicole Kidman was even more unbearable than Tom Cruise.

Am I supposed to be enjoying it on a merely impressionistic level, as a sort of affectless tone poem that isn’t really about the human experience, but something sublimely inhuman, like the last sequence of 2001: A Space Odyssey? Are hallucinogens necessary for appreciating Eyes Wide Shut?

Is the movie just something for the eyes to focus on while listening to Jocelyn Pook’s maddening music?

As a friend, I ask you these things, because your harassment on this issue has gotten out of control. The way you boom your mitts on my door after midnight, with that ratty VHS copy clutched in your hand is startling my poor neighbors. You’re like the Ancient Mariner with this wretched tape as your albatross that you are somehow proud of.

Apparently, the old woman two doors down from me invited you in, and you showed the movie to her and offered your own expert commentary on the film while she watched it. At least you found someone who had a VHS machine. You drank all her lemonade after you finished the Guinness you had brought. She thought you were very nice. Does Jenn know you are doing this?

Really, buddy. I’m getting worried.

_______

John King (Episode, well, all of them) is a podcaster, writer, and ferret wrangler.

In Boozo Veritas #67: Lady of the Lakes Ren Faire with the Silvias

10 Monday Nov 2014

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In Boozo Veritas #67 by Teege Braune

Lady of the Lakes Ren Faire with the Silvias

On Friday night as I was finishing my shift at Redlight Redlight I fortuitously ran into Jared and Lesley Silvia who had popped in for a drink. After a couple rounds the conversation took a lively turn.

“I can’t believe you guys have never been to the Lady of the Lakes Renaissance Faire?!” I nearly shouted.

“No,” the shook their heads. “Never.”

After a few more rounds we decided to cancel all of our Sunday appointments and go. I had planned on meeting them at their place after dropping Jenn off at work at Bookmark It, but Saturday morning my van broke down as it sometimes does. Jared and Lesley were not only kind enough to pick me up for the fair, they also gave Jenn and ride to the bookstore. The day was grey, overcast, and cool, a nice change from the muggy heat of early fall.

“It feels just like summer in England,” Lesley aptly commented.

The fair is in Tavares past some hills, deciduous trees, and terrain that bears very little resemblance to most of Florida. It had moved a few miles away from the clearing that had been its location the last several years and was now situated on a trail winding through a small pine forest that lay between a firing range and a landfill. Seeing cars parked in a grassy lot, we jumped the gun and turned, too soon, into the firing range. Jared drove us down a red clay rode, but we realized our error when we came to a sign that read: “Warning! Do not enter! Live ammunition being fired!”

We quickly turned around were soon able to locate our destination on the opposite side of the landfill. Lady of the Lakes is not the biggest or fanciest Renaissance Faire in Florida. It’s not quite Halloween, not quite MegaCon, but there are a lot of people in costumes, the food is fried to perfection, and they have alcohol, which imbues any occasion with that extra air of festivity. I don’t dress up for the fair, but neither do I judge those who do. It is in fact the vast array of knights, fairies, lords and ladies, a few dragons, and plenty of pirates that make the renaissance fair a worthwhile experience.

Too much beer. (Photo by Lesley Silvia.)

Ren fair novices will go straight to the jousting tournament. This is a rookie’s mistake. The splintering of lances is about the only excitement one can hope to expect from men who have never officially been knighted, the chances of someone falling off a horse or getting hurt slim in the era of insurance companies and workman’s comp, so we skipped that event and merely soaked up the delightful anachronisms and counted the number of Daenerys Targaryens we could spy as we made our way down the trail past booths of merchants and various drinking tents named things like The Drunk Monk, Pirate Cove Pub, and Lord Edward’s Tavern.

We got beers and Lesley went to the birds of prey exhibition while Jared and I enjoyed the final set of Celtic Mayhem whose upbeat renditions of Irish drinking songs are an annual tradition at Lady of the Lakes. A misprint in the fair schedule made us miss the bulk of the raunchy comic stylings of the Washing Well Wenches, another one of the fair’s highlights. I was happy that we caught the tail end of their raucous and over the top performance, but immediately afterward, we listened to a few minutes of Johnny Phoenix’s own hackneyed standup act, which promptly ruined any waves of residual humor that continued to delight us. We had to be extra funny to make up for the atrocious bit comedy that was only stupider than it was offensive.

Way too much beer. (Photo by Lesley Silvia.)

After a few more beers, we discovered the archery and ax throwing tents where the most cantankerous old carney attempted to show us the proper way to shoot a bow and arrow.

“You’re still holding it wrong. I don’t have time for this!” she shouted throwing our arrows to the ground, yet nevertheless, refused to leave until we were able to fire the arrows within a few yards of the bulls eye.

Photo by Lesley Silvia.

We were mostly unsuccessful at landing an onslaught of small throwing axes onto a fence that was painted to look either like a dragon or a large menacing cat, but after inadvertently nailing it a few times right where its balls would be, Lesley proved that if you had to take one of the three of us into battle with you, she’d be your greatest warrior.

We purchased a final round of beers and Jared and I went head to head in a duel of a more cerebral nature in a game of man-sized checkers, but soon learned that we were not much better at that than ax throwing and called it a draw once our few remaining kings began to wander aimlessly, chasing each other to no avail around the checkerboard.

Photo by Lesley Silvia.

The fair was more subdued than in past years, but we were well satisfied as we strolled through the parking lot, the sun setting majestically over the crest of the landfill’s largest mound.

We met up with Jenn and all went to dinner at Garibaldi where they serve the largest glasses of sangria and margaritas I have ever seen. What better way, I thought, to finish a day at a paint and cardboard version of the renaissance that with a steaming plate of enchiladas? With the help of some alcohol and a more than healthy dose of imagination, I was able to travel to historically and culturally inaccurate versions of both medieval Europe and Mexico in one day. We are blessed.

_______

Teege Braune (episode 72, episode 75, episode 77, episode 90, episode 102, episode 122) is a writer of literary fiction, horror, essays, and poetry. Recently he has discovered the joys of drinking responsibly. He may or may not be a werewolf.

In Boozo Veritas # 66: Adventures in Halloweening (An Afterword in the Style of Bierce)

03 Monday Nov 2014

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Horror, In Boozo Veritas

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Teege Braune, The Enzian Theater, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

In Boozo Veritas #66 by Jenn Benner

Adventures in Halloweening: An Afterword in the Style of Bierce

To the loyal and dedicated readers of In Boozo Veritas, I have co-opted Teege’s blog this week in order to plead for your assistance. No one has seen or heard from Teege since Halloween, and I am asking you to please come forward with any information about his whereabouts to which you may be privy. I’m not sure if he ran away and is in hiding, was kidnapped, or has simply vanished into thin air. I believe that he is alive because he has posted on social media, albeit only sparingly and without giving any clues to his location. The idea that he was tortured into giving up his Facebook and Instagram passwords before being brutally murdered has, of course, crossed my mind, but is simply to grizzly a notion for me to entertain.

When I describe our evening, I think you will understand just how bizarre the situation truly is. Halloween began normally enough. We were both excited as it is our favorite holiday. While I was teaching, Teege had planned on doing last minute costume shopping. He arrived at my school mid-afternoon to eat lunch and made a strange comment.

“That zombie Nat seems to be lurking around every Halloween store I go in,” he told me. I was confused because his best friend from college is named Nat, but lives in Seattle.

“Nat is in Orlando?” I asked.

“Apparently so,” he answered.

“Did you know he was coming? Did he fly all way from Seattle this morning? Why was he dressed like a zombie? Is he going to hang out with us tonight?” I found it surprising that this would be the first time Teege would mention Nat’s visit.

“What are you talking about? Not Nat Evans. Nat Orel,” came the cryptic answer.

Before I could ask who Nat Orel is, some children noticed the giant plastic meat cleaver Teege was holding and the necklace of human ears he was wearing, and the attention was redirected.

After school we came home to put on our costumes and get ready to go out for the night.

Teege dressed up like an evil Leprechaun and I went as Leprechaun meat, my guts spilling out of my shirt. Around 9:30 we met friends at Redlight Redlight and ordered pizza from O’Stromboli. Drinking a glass of stout in order to stay in character, Teege was laughing and happy, in his element, but he was also a little distracted and kept looking around as if searching for someone. After a couple of hours we left Redlight Redlight to see the midnight showing of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre at the Enzian.

We pulled into the already packed parking lot, and as we slowly drove by the costumed revelers overflowing out of Eden Bar, Teege shouted, “He’s here! The bastard found me!”

“Who’s here?” I asked thinking he was pulling some prank or playing a silly game.

“When we walk through Eden Bar look for a guy wearing a black trench coat and a big, droopy hat.”

He took my hand as we made our way through the dense crowd, but I didn’t see the man Teege had described. We found our friends Jared and Lesley, joined them at a table, and the conversation turned to other topics: Halloweens past, the Lady of the Lakes Renaissance Fair next weekend, and my upcoming interview of Jeff VanderMeer, the author of the best-selling Southern Reach Trilogy who will be reading at Functionally Literate on the fifteenth of this month. It wasn’t until after our beers and popcorn had arrived that Teege mentioned the strange man one last time.

“Have you seen a guy with a black trench coat and a big hat in zombie makeup in here?” he asked Jared and Lesley as if making casual conversation. We all glanced around the theater, but no one in the audience was wearing that specific costume or resembled the person Teege had been seeking.

By that time Leather Face had begun to chase a member of the Enzian’s staff around the auditorium with a chainsaw. They disappeared through a side door, the lights dimmed, and the movie began. All the spectacular, grainy horror of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre was even more disturbing and wonderful on the big screen.

As a couple, it has long been a favorite of ours, and early in our relationship we bonded over a mutual love of the film. Plus, it was the first time either of us had watched it since Marilyn Burns’s passing a few months ago, which brought an extra emotional layer to the final image of Sally drenched in blood, riding off into the sunrise.

The audience gave the movie a standing ovation and was bursting with enthusiasm despite the late hour after it ended. While exiting the theater and chatting about our favorite moments, Teege slipped off to use the restroom. Jared, Lesley, and I stood around in the lobby talking when I began to realize just how long Teege had been gone. Reluctantly, Jared agreed to check on him. He returned moments later shaking his head.

“He’s not in there” he said simply.

As there is no exit from the Enzian’s men’s room to the outside except through the lobby, this was a remarkably unsettling situation. We had all seen him go in the restroom, but no had seen him come out. Others came and went, but not Teege. There was nowhere else he could be, and yet he was not there.

A thorough search of the In Boozo Veritas offices revealed heaps of empty liquor bottles and an unfinished manuscript that read, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” written over and over again, but nothing unusual. I asked John King if he’s knows anything, and he said that Teege has not written or reached out to him in any way, but added that if Teege fails to meet his contractual obligation and submit an In Boozo Veritas entry this week, he has to give back the $50,000 advance John pays him on a quarterly basis, so I have used this cry for help by way of taking on the burden in Teege’s absence.

It is possible that he will show up on our doorstep this very night, drunken and incoherent as usual. On the other hand, I may receive a ransom letter from any of the nefarious characters with whom Teege is involved. Perhaps his skeletal remains will be uncovered six months from now under the tiles of the Enzian’s men’s room when plumbing issues require that the floor be replaced. Disturbing as this proposition is, considering the inexplicable nature of his disappearance, it is not my worst fear. I worry that the truth may be even darker, that Teege has somehow entered our very atmosphere, slipped into a fourth dimensional plain of existence, riding the tremor of terror, the ghost of our favorite holiday that lurks between the bumps in the night, he’ll reemerge hungry and vengeful in October of next year, eager to loose the spirit of Samhain on us all, whether we will it or no, a night of inexpressible horror to last throughout the eons, a Halloween without end.

_______

Jenn Benner knows well that narrow path of existence between ecstasy and terror. She is a horror aficionado, which may explain why she chooses to spend her time with Teege Braune.

In Boozo Veritas #65: Adventures in Halloweening: Part 4

27 Monday Oct 2014

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In Boozo Veritas #65 by Teege Braune

Adventures in Halloweening: Part 4

The season of Samhain is upon us. This is my last In Boozo Veritas before the thirty-first and final entry into this year’s Adventures in Halloweening. Though my pinky is still broken, I haven’t let the injury prevent me from cavorting with witches and tangling amongst ghouls. This might be my last blog of the season, but we have nearly a full week before the fateful night, and many more adventures to pursue.

Read the short story “The Gutter Sees the Light That Never Shines” by Alistair Rennie. In this fantastic piece of dark-fantasy, Rennie moves a collection of imaginatively nasty characters around The City of Thrills like chess pieces as they encounter each other in increasingly gruesome and visceral conflicts. No sane reader will have a clear sense of whom to root for, but an unexpected full-circle twist of vengeance makes for a devilishly well-crafted climax worthy of Chan-wook Park. The violence, both relished by the characters and presented in loving technicolor by Rennie, is not however the most disturbing aspect of the story. Instead, I found the frightening implications of the dangerous yet captivating world that Rennie creates to be more unsettling. This story is part of a series of tales about the Meta-Warriors, described as “a troupe of ultra-violent, habitually transgressive misfits” on their creator’s website, and I look forward to delving deeper into their horrible adventures.

Watched John Carpenter’s In the Mouth of Madness. A thoroughly entertaining movie, there are plenty of reasons why it has never become a classic.

Teetering between schlock, weird fiction, and meta-horror, it follows Sam Neill’s John Trent, an insurance claims investigator attempting to discover the whereabout of missing horror novelist Sutter Cane. As Trent delves deeper into the mystery, the world around him becomes unquantifiably stranger and his accent wavers precariously between American and Australian. The film takes most of its cues from Lovecraft: many of the allusions (Pickman’s Hotel) are direct references to names within Lovecraft’s universe and the notion that otherworldly creatures are attempting to enter and destroy civilization will be no doubt familiar to Lovecraft’s readers, the central plot devise that reading a supernatural text, in this case Cane’s latest novel, can lead to delirium, paranoia, and eventually insanity has its antecedent in Robert Chambers King in Yellow cycle.

Chambers stories, which bridge the gap between nineteenth century decadence and twentieth century horror have been dubbed proto-weird, yet remain as fresh, eerie, and modern as the work of Lovecraft among others that he influenced. He enjoyed a posthumous resurgence in popularity, The King in Yellow actually jumping to number one, due to references in HBO’s True Detective, despite the show’s failure to contribute anything new to the mythos or even utilize it in any interesting way. This week I read Chambers “The Yellow Sign” for the first time and can easily see why it has continued to appeal to horror fans throughout the last hundred years. As it accounts the burgeoning and arguably inappropriate relationship between an artist, the narrator, and his young nude model, the pair are simultaneously tormented by the wide, pale face of a mysteriously repulsive doorman who seems to always be glaring into the artist’s studio and finally infiltrating their dreams. The confluence of events that leads to the protagonists’ horrifying conclusion and the details surrounding the doorman’s grotesque countenance are indeed unnerving, but I was left most undone by the dramatic shift in tone the story takes after the characters read the damning text, a play itself entitled The King in Yellow, a playfulness that becomes a dark, hopeless, ethereal pondering that almost seems to nihilistically accept the gruesome fate awaiting the victims.

Photo by Karen Price.

Back in Orlando local author and journalist Bob Kealing had an exciting week. On Tuesday he realized a personal dream when the Kerouac House, which has for several years hosted a writing fellowship, became an official historical landmark, the first time Orlando has awarded the distinction to a location with literary significance.

Photo by Karen Price.

The lovely and well attended ceremony in the front yard was drier than Kerouac or I would have preferred, but featured pepper jack cheese, a mutual favorite for both the spokesman for the Beat Generation and myself. Keeling’s contribution, both discovering the house’s connection to Kerouac and writing a fantastic book called Kerouac in Florida: Where the Road Ends, were rightfully recognized. Yesterday he gave a presentation at East End Market on his latest book Tupperware Unsealed: Brownie Wise, Earl Tupper, and the Home Party Pioneers, the film rights of which have recently been optioned with Sandra Bullock expressing interest in the role of Brownie Wise. Kealing’s knowledge, story-telling, and obvious enthusiasm for the subject were so absorbing that those of us in the audience who had never before pondered the history of Tupperware found ourselves, nevertheless, captivated.

Despite the southern gothic charm of the hanging moss over the Kerouac house, I must admit neither event had much of a Halloween connection, but sharing a sangria with Pat Greene yesterday at the market, I did enjoy an oddly spooky twist. I had casually mentioned to Pat that I kept running into a guy dressed in a hat and trench coat with the most life-like and disgusting zombie make-up I had ever seen.

“Actually, I haven’t seen him this week, but it seems like every Halloween reading or event I go to the guy is lurking around in the same make-up even when no one else is dressed up,” I said.

“Oh yeah? It kind of reminds me of Nat Orel,” laughed Pat who is kind of a local historian in his own right.

“Who the hell is Nat Orel?” I asked.

“You never heard of Nat Orel? He was a petty thug around Winter Park and Orlando back in the late sixties and seventies, more of a small time crook and a bully than an actual criminal. Everybody knew him even though no one liked him. He had been in and out of jail a bunch of times, and finally he crossed a line, and this time he’s going to go away for a while. I think he shot a guy while he was knocking off a gas station or something, but the cops can’t seem to nab him. They keep getting tips that he’s at this bar or that bar, but by the time they get there he’s ducked out. This is Halloween in ’78 or ’79, I think. Then the next morning the find his body all mangled up. They think somebody had tied him to the back of a car and dragged up and down Winter Park road, but nobody ever reported anything suspicious, and they never arrested anybody for killing him. I don’t think they looked very hard because everybody kind of figured whoever did it did the city a favor,” Pat guffawed at this as though it were the punchline to a really great joke.

“Anyway, there used to be a local legend that Nat would lurk around Orlando before Halloween in a trench coat and a fedora, and if anyone looked at his face, he’d drag you to hell, but nobody really talks about it anymore,” Pat concluded.

It looks like either the strange zombie I’ve been seeing everywhere either has an equally odd knowledge of obscure and morbid local history, or else Nat Orel has chosen me as this year’s victim. In the meantime, tonight there will be a great reading once again hosted by Bookmark It at the East End Market featuring a smattering of local publishing house Beating Windward’s more macabre authors including Nathan Holic, Keith Gouveia, Jon Binkowski, and of course, Karen Best whose collection A Floating World features thirteen wonderfully unnerving and creepy stories and has established Karen as central Florida’s literary face of Halloween.

Friday night, of course, is my favorite day of the entire year. Jenn and I are planning on going to see The Texas Chainsaw Massacre at the Enzian at midnight, but surrounding that we will hit up as many Halloween parties as possible. Meanwhile, I’ll be keeping a wary eye open for old, undead Nat for the preservation of my mortal soul. See you all on Halloween!

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Teege Braune (episode 72, episode 75, episode 77, episode 90, episode 102, episode 122) is a writer of literary fiction, horror, essays, and poetry. Recently he has discovered the joys of drinking responsibly. He may or may not be a werewolf.

In Boozo Veritas # 64: Adventures in Halloweening, Part 3

20 Monday Oct 2014

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Horror, In Boozo Veritas

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Francis Ford Coppola, Poetry, There Will Be Words

In Boozo Veritas # 64 by Teege Braune

Adventures in Halloweening: Part 3

Horror Movie Poetry Night Teege Braun Howls

This week I broke my finger. Or jammed it; I’m not really sure. If it isn’t better by the time this blog goes live, I’m going to have it looked at. I finally bought a splint, and now it’s starting to look a little more normal and regain some movement. Earlier in the week, not taking my injury all that seriously, I was working, typing, and using it as well as I could, but the swelling, bruising, and discoloration were actually getting worse instead of better. My finger had turned the bloody purple, grave green, and putrid yellow of a decaying, bloated corpse. It actually looked a lot like this grub.

Read “Taxidermist in the Underworld” by Maria Dahvana Headley in Clarkesworld Magazine. The story’s protagonist Louis is kidnapped by the Devil and taken to Hell for the purpose of mounting and preserving Satan’s exceptional ghost collection. Though Louis protests, the Devil calmly explains that he is the best taxidermist in both worlds and won’t be returning to the surface until he finishes. The descriptions of Hell (Satan travels around using pneumatic tubes) and struggles Louis has with the ghosts (“One must pet the ghost and pose it, and one must not disregard the ghost’s opinions, or one will risk ghost venom dribbled from tentacles, as well as luminous toxins, barbs, and boneless slither,”) are both inventive and humorous, but when Louis’s lover Carl arrives from Earth to help him complete his task some truly bizarre twists and turns occur until the unexpected ending, which while not exactly scary, on the contrary, comes at the reader like a joyous benediction.

I participated in two incredible readings at the Gallery at Avalon Island this week.

I was not originally scheduled to read at There Will Be Words, but blackmailed Ryan Rivas into giving me his spot. As per our agreement, I obviously cannot tell you what information I used to blackmail Ryan, so please don’t ask, but I will say that I’m glad I did because I have never before been to a reading that was so consistently spooky, creepy, and unnerving from beginning to end. You can listen to the entire thing right here at The Drunken Odyssey.

Afterwards, we went to Burton’s where we drank multiple pitchers of beer. Amped up by the spirit of Samhain we got into an altercation when some toughs claimed that Valentine’s Day is a better holiday than Halloween. Well, I may have broken my finger, but we ripped out their beards and stomped them into the pavement of Washington Street.

Later in the week, the illustrious host of the world’s greatest literary podcast (you know the one) gathered us back at Avalon for a horror movie themed poetry reading that brought together some of Orlando’s best prose writers stepping out their comfort zones and demonstrating their versatility alongside some of Orlando’s best poets just so us prose writers could see how the craft is really meant to be done.

Watched Hell Baby, written and directed by Ben Garant and Thomas Lennon, the guys who created Reno 911 and were founding members of The State long before that.

Like other screwball horror spoofs, some of which I actually enjoy, Hell Baby exploits the tropes of scary movies, but transcends the genre by not merely relying on cliches for laughs. Starring the always funny Rob Corddry, this time as the straight-man, and Leslie Bibb as a couple who has recently moved into an old house with a sordid past. Is the house possessed? Or is the wife Vanessa simply carrying the devil’s child? Well, you find out the answers to these questions, but the plot is really less important than the characters’ enthusiasm over po’ boys, their puke-fest at photos of mutilated therapist Dr. Marshall (Michael Ian Black), and the comings and goings of the intruding neighbor F’resnel (Keegan-Michael Key). The movie has as many groans as laughs, but it is, nevertheless, worth throwing in the middle of your Halloween marathon, maybe late at night after everybody’s already had a few drinks or made a couple passes with the pipe.

Jenn and I went to Horror Business Theater’s performance of Children in Heat Vs. The Teenagers From Mars, a musical that tied various Misfits songs together with a science-fiction/horror storyline about a small group of criminal gutter-punks locked in interplanetary battle against a team of extra-terrestrial jocks who are attempting to conquer Earth by impregnating teenage girls with their alien seed and killing everyone else. While the micro-production had no real set to speak of and felt like little more than an excuse to sing Misfits standards, there’s really nothing wrong with that. The costumes were fun, the songs executed fantastically, and the leading man, billed as Rodney Attitude, sounded preternaturally like Glenn Danzig himself. Furthermore, the constant barrage of beer cans and profanity slung at the cast throughout the duration of the performance, created a damned lively atmosphere. It was also the first play I’ve ever been to that had a mosh pit. Jenn and I stood (there was no seating) near the back with some other older members of the audience, but sang along to each number with the same enthusiasm as everyone else. At one point I looked over at the guy next to me, and he was the same creepy, ugly zombie I had seen at Zombietoberfest a couple weeks ago still lurking under that hat and trench coat.

“Getting as much use out of that fancy makeup as you can this Halloween season, huh, man?” I asked him snidely.

As usual a slight nod was his only response. I planned on talking to him after the show to tell him I really did admire his disgusting makeup and find out if I actually knew him under all that face paint, but he slipped out at some point near the end of the performance. I asked the people I was with if any of them knew who he was, but no one else had even noticed him.

Yesterday, to celebrate our sixth anniversary, Jenn and I went to the Food and Wine Festival at Epcot. Making multiple loops around the pavilion sampling just about every pescetarian-friendly dish available and sipping numerous, though modestly-sized glasses of wine, beer, and various cocktails, taking breaks in between to ride Spaceship Earth and watch Captain Eo, does not necessarily qualify as a Halloween adventure, but it was a blast all the same.

After we got home, to get us back in the spirit, we put on another Francis Ford Coppola film, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, a movie I watch every Halloween, but never get tired of.

Brimming over with gothic decadence, its balance of sex and decay perfectly poised, even the intentional anachronisms contribute to a film that feels almost dangerous in its indulgent delights. Gary Oldman remains the greatest Dracula in the history of cinema and leads a fantastic ensemble with one glaring exception but is made up for by including Tom Waits, no less.

I know I’ll get hate mail for this, but I think the movie is even better than Bram Stoker’s Victorian classic.

Tune in next week for this year’s exciting final installment of Adventures in Halloweening.

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In Boozo Veritas # 63: Adventures in Halloweening Part 2

13 Monday Oct 2014

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Horror, In Boozo Veritas

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In Boozo Veritas #63 by Teege Braune

Adventures in Halloweening Part 2

The Halloweens of my childhood were more magical than Christmas. The magic of Christmas was solely in the command of Santa Claus who could dispense with it as he saw fit. I could do nothing but wait and behave as best as I was able in the hope that it would be enough to appease St. Nick so that he would bless me with his individual power. A connoisseur of presents, I did indeed value Santa Claus and his magic very much. That being said, there was a reason why Halloween and not Christmas was my favorite holiday. During Halloween, I didn’t depend on another person or entity for the magic to arrive. Far from it, the crisp, Autumn air itself was imbued with a raw energy, and anyone could access it if they only knew how. Moreover, you didn’t have to be good to participate in the spirit of Halloween. If anything, being really good seemed counterintuitive. Nevertheless, acquiring the full power of this magic required more than simple misdeeds. The means of achieving it were esoteric, and I, for one, could not have told my fellow Halloweeners exactly what was required of them, but I had a sense that there was a simplicity to its vaporous effervescence. That perhaps the secret had something to do with little more than loving Halloween. She who loved Halloween enough could be like Gilda Radner’s titular character in Witch’s Night Out and make everyone’s wishes and nightmares come true. Every year I strove to love Halloween a little more than the year before. Perhaps this year, I thought, will be the year it really happens. Perhaps this will be the year I finally turn into a werewolf. No matter how hard I tried, every year the magic of Halloween felt a little further away.

Last week David Lynch announced that he was working on season three of Twin Peaks. Season two of the weirdest, creepiest, most wonderful television show of all time left its protagonist Special Agent Dale Cooper in peril and the fate of the troubled citizens of Twin Peaks unknown. That’s a hell of a twenty-five year cliffhanger, but as tidy endings have never been Lynch’s trademark, most of us had learned to accept the ambiguity even if we never really got over it. Fire Walk With Me, while a masterpiece of a prequel, only toyed with our wounds and did little to assuage the pain. My friends’ enthusiasm for a new season of Twin Peaks saturated my facebook wall just as I was sharing “Adventures in Halloweening: Part 1,” but I didn’t care because I have never been so thrilled to be overshadowed before in my life.

Read Usman T. Malik’s short story “Resurrection Points” in Strange Horizons. The story opens with the graphic depiction of a corpse’s dissection, is narrated by Daoud, a boy with the unusual gift of a healing, life-giving touch that he has inherited from his father and mentor. Caught in the middle of a conflict between the Muslims and Christians of his community, Daoud has more power and heartache than his young age can process, and the unexpected and ambiguous ending leaves the reader with a sense of both disaster and catharsis that is spellbinding. I’m not sure that the story can properly be called horror or even fantasy, but it handles its examination of both the regenerative and destructive abilities of faith with a supernatural edge, foggy genre lines, and a literary finesse that is a thrill to read. I’m excited that Malik will be reading in Orlando for Functionally Literate along with Jeff VanderMeer next month and look forward to seeing this incredible writer in person.

Participated in a Halloween-themed Literocalypse that also included readings by Kristen Arnett, Lauren Reilly, Bekki Charbonneau, and Jack Fields. One of the highlights of the evening was Dolly Lambcock’s totally bizarre reinterpretation, à la Sharon Needles, of Lambchop’s Singalong. I closed out the night by reading an alternative ending to “Rumpelstiltskin” and my short story “Sick Fair” about a little boy whose experience at the carnival is less fun than he had anticipated. Having suffered from night terrors my entire life, the story is based on a dream I had when I was a little kid that scared me so badly I never forgot it. I had a good solid wine buzz by the time I went onstage to read that thought I saw in the back of the audience the creepy zombie wearing the same hat and trench coat from Zombietoberfest last week. He got up and snuck out the door halfway through my story. After the reading mingling in the lounge eating Halloween oreos and drinking even more wine, I saw a guy milling around in a hat and black jacket.

“I loved your zombie makeup,” I said to him. “Why did you wash it off?”

“Uh, what are you talking about?” he asked me. “Nice story, by the way.”

“Weren’t you at Zombietoberfest last week?” I said.

“What the hell is that? Sounds like fun,” he said and walked away.

I poured myself another glass of wine thinking, I probably need to drink a little less at these sorts of events.

Watched the classic hag-horror film What Ever Happened to Baby Jane starring Joan Crawford and Bette Davis.

Surprisingly I’d never seen this truly disturbing glance at one of the most dysfunctional families in cinematic history. Jane Hudson is one of the greatest villains in the history of horror, the credit due entirely to Bette Davis’s performance of her psychological deterioration, leaping from hateful sadist to obliviously aged, naive starlet with uncomfortable fluidity while tormenting her sister Blanche in the name of the jealousy that eats her alive. It’s nice to still be shocked and wowed now and then, especially when I start to feel like I’ve run the gamut on the scares Hollywood has to offer.

Scoured my book Masterpieces of Terror and the Supernatural searching for a story I read a few years ago, but of which I now can’t remember the name or author.

Narrated by a young child, the story unfolds as a family awakes in utter darkness, and as they attempt to find a light, they discover that they are trapped in some kind of otherworldly, pitch-black dungeon without exit or escape. The utterly hopeless nihilism of the story’s conclusion is unnerving to no end, but it soon became clear that it was not in the anthology I believed it to be, though the cover does have a wonderfully odd Edward Gorey illustration on it and in the process of looking for it I read some great stories like “The Professor’s Teddybear” by Theodore Sturgeon, “The Faceless Thing” by Edward D. Hoch, and “One Summer Night” by Ambrose Bierce. If any of you horror fiction fans or scary story aficionados are familiar with the tale I’m referring to, your input would be greatly appreciated.

Finished with the week with the annual staple Beetlejuice, because it’s just not Halloween without the ghost with the most. Prepared for There Will Be Words fourth Flash Fiction Spooktacular tomorrow night in which I will be subbing for my dear, overworked friend Ryan Rivas.

Finally, on Saturday The Drunken Odyssey’s Horror Movie Poetry Night will bring you a cast of fantastic local authors and their literary interpretation of their favorite scary films.

I’m in charge of werewolf movies if you haven’t already guessed. Both readings will be held at 7:00 at the Gallery at Avalon Island, the spookiest art gallery in downtown Orlando.

The days may be upwards of eighty degrees, but the nights are filled with chilling current of Samhain!

_______

Teege Braune (episode 72, episode 75, episode 77, episode 90, episode 102) is a writer of literary fiction, horror, essays, and poetry. Recently he has discovered the joys of drinking responsibly. He may or may not be a werewolf.

In Boozo Veritas # 62: Adventures in Halloweening: Part 1

06 Monday Oct 2014

Posted by thedrunkenodyssey in Horror, In Boozo Veritas, Zombies

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In Boozo Veritas # 62 by Teege Braune

Adventures in Halloweening: Part 1

I walked with a zombie last night.

-Roky Erickson

I really don’t care to know that Samhain is pronounced Sow-in and not phonetically, and I have never thought of Halloween as a holiday that only takes place on October 31. Halloween is an atmosphere that builds like a tempest and culminates on the last day of October. The Halloweener does herself a great disservice acknowledging the ghastly and macabre only once annually. If you are anything like Jenn and me, Halloween is peppered throughout the entire year, and then completely takes over the month of October. After all, I am part werewolf, a Halloween Man. We have four rules to live by as October builds towards Halloween:

Watch only horror films.
Read only scary stories
Participate in as many Halloween-oriented extra-curricular activities as possible
Make at least one human sacrifice to the Sabbatic Goat Baphomet

Pretty simple stuff. During the month of October, 2014, In Boozo Veritas will be dedicated to cataloging our terrifying adventures as we descend towards what promises to be a very memorable Halloween indeed.

I began the month by finishing Acceptance, the third novel in Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach Trilogy. These three books, also incorporating the novels Annihilation and Authority, are perhaps the best and most original examples of science-fiction oriented cosmic horror in the twenty-first century. Ecologically inspired without ever devolving into allegory, the implications of these novels are more terrifying than any single moment of horror that occurs within. That being said, those moments, when they come, are made all the more jarring because the individual characters are so well drawn, imbued with so much natural humanity, that the reader cannot help but become entirely invested in their well being. I cannot wait to see VanderMeer read at Functionally Literate in November.

Went with Jenn and the Silvias to the German American Society of Central Florida’s Oktoberfest celebration in Casselberry.

Anyone who enjoys standing in lines for things like pretzels, beer, and using the restroom will have a great time at Oktoberfest. Fortunately, invigorating conversation with fellow artists and writers can make even waiting in line an exciting experience, and Jared and Lesley Silvia are simply oozing with creative talent. After a couple pitchers of Hofbräu, we decided to make our way to Audubon Park’s Zombietoberfest. As they were able to procure a parking space that was less than several miles from the event, Jared and Lesley were kind enough to give us a ride to our car. An empty patch of grass adjoining Evergreen Cemetery provided an impromptu parking lot for the packed festival, and as we trudged towards the car, Jared explained to me that years ago the grassy area had provided a potter’s field for unknown corpses and those whose family could not provide even the most rudimentary post-life accommodations.

“So just how many bodies do you think we’re walking on right now?” I asked him, appalled.

“How should I know? Most likely hundreds,” came the disturbing answer.

Watched Shivers, David Cronenberg’s first major feature film. While elements like the phallic, orgy-inducing parasites anticipate the kind of viscerally disgusting, body-horror nightmares that Cronenberg would later accomplish with classics like The Brood, Videodrome, and The Fly, there is a solid reason why Shivers was so hard to find and wasn’t even available on DVD for so long. Richer material, no doubt, for Jeff Schuster than myself, but I’m glad I watched it all the same. It’s nice to know that even a juggernaut like Cronenberg had some false starts before he made his mark.

Read “Schalken the Painter” by Sheridan Le Fanu. While Le Fanu’s Carmilla is credited as the first canonized vampire in western literature, Minheer Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, seems to be as much an influence on Stoker’s Dracula as Carmilla herself. I cite, particularly, the scene of bedroom abduction and the overarching sense of lewd decay that clings to the principal antagonists in both works of classic gothic horror. The brevity of “Schalken the Painter” contributes to its masterfully executed jolt, which comes at the reader swiftly and occupies less than a full line of the story. Nevertheless, it is a terrifying moment and made all the more bizarre by the fact that Godfried Schalken is a historical and much celebrated artist. Western horror is absolutely covered in Le Fanu’s bloody fingerprints, and it’s nice to see that his wonderful tales are being rediscovered.

When we got to Zombietoberfest it seemed the bulk of the festivities had already taken place including the costume contest, the grand prizes of which went to friends of ours.

The unseasonably cool night, created a delightful autumnal atmosphere. We spotted a fellow in a black trench coat, his collar up against the breeze and a wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes. I wondered if he had entered the zombie contest, and if so, why he didn’t win first place. Maybe subtlety was the key; he was primarily covered up by the hat, the high collar, and shadows of night, but the exposed bit of his face revealed the grossest zombie I have ever seen outside of cinema.

“Nice makeup, man,” I said as he passed. A brief nod was his only response.

As Zombietoberfest was ending, we made our way to Redlight Redlight, where zombies, zombie hunters, and normals all intermingled, but then again Redlight Redlight has always been known for bringing people together. My day-long bout of drinking was starting to get the better of me and my friends were mostly disappearing. I was polishing off my final liter of beer as Jenn gently tugged me towards the exit when I spotted him again, the disgusting zombie I had seen earlier. He was wearing the same coat and hat that he wore at Zombietoberfest, and while the lights were dimmed considerably, I was able to get a solid look at him. The skin on his face appeared to be completely eaten away; his eyeballs hung out at weird angles; he had no nose to speak of; and his lips were peeled back revealing jagged yellow teeth. He even made it look as though worms were crawling in and out of his mangled flesh. Never in my life have I seen homemade makeup that convincing. I wondered if he came from Universal Studios, but he did nothing to indicate that he was advertising Halloween Horror Nights.

Earlier this evening Jenn and I finally got around to watching Adam Wingard’s You’re Next, which proved to be one of the most tense and exciting home invasion movies since the proto-slasher Black Christmas. Considering that home invasions by masked psychopaths is now the leading cause of death in the United States, this is a very culturally significant genre. While the cast is made up of an in-crowd of mumble-gore’s indie darlings, Barbara Crampton as the matriarch of the doomed and dysfunctional clan was a treat for the horror aficionados in our household. That said, Sharni Vinson as the most badass final girl in cinematic history, really carries the weight of the film on her own Aussie shoulders.

This week’s Halloween calendar includes Literocalypse # 10 at the Space on Thursday, October 9th at 9 pm. This reading is dedicated to scary stories, and I will be presenting my weird tale “Sick Fair,” for your macabre enjoyment. The season of Samhain has begun. Stay tuned in the weeks to come for more adventures in Halloweening.

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