Molly

Thursday, February 19, 1995
David
Senior, Sociology
Columbus, Ohio


I and I alone walk from Russell House to Molly's apartment on Greene Street, none of the usual cars or kids or credit card salesmen’s calls or anything at all to dim the crunch of ice beneath my boots or the howl of wind in my ears. My chin is tucked against my chest. My hands are buried in my green nylon Gap parka’s pockets, its grey, cotton-lined hood tied tightly around my head. Molly’s dinner, in a snow-white plastic bag tied around my wrist, swings into my thigh with every quickening step.
The snow has slowed since this morning, but the wind is merciless: papercuts across my hands and face. It’s only a little after five o-clock, but the sky is already overtaken by an ominous gray, infinite and uncompromising, and I try my best to keep my eyes locked on my feet to avoid its engulfing, all-encompassing, never-ending gaze. 

A streetlight switches on as I pass underneath, and then another, and then another, and it causes me to relax, loosen, drop my shoulders, sigh. Relief.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch as I hike through the snow. The cold vapor of my breath erupting in front of my face with every step.

 In the distance, far above me, through the light of a window in a room high up in Snowden, a television flickers. A figure sits, and I can actually see the steam rising from his cup of something I imagine to be coffee, warm and heavenly, mirroring and brazenly mocking the visible bursts of breath escaping from my mouth—bursts that become closer and closer together as my pace becomes even quicker. Snowden was a shantytown dorm when I lived there my Freshman year. Now it’s just plain shitty. A sort-of Freshman exile for the kids too irresponsible to register early and land a sweet spot in Bathesda House, or even Gambrell Hall. It's heart-of-campus location is it's only saving grace. Other than that, it is dilapidated, decrepit, no air conditioning, an interior with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. I’ve heard reports of roaches in the beds. Athlete’s foot in the showers, showers that sometimes work but usually don’t. Last week Chris Kohler told me about a guy in his Parks and Rec lab group who swears he caught crabs from one of the seventh floor toilet seats, and I don’t doubt it. I smile at the idea of the Snowden Freshman Welcome Week care package grab bag including a roll of yellow “Police Line – Do Not Cross” tape along with the standard toothbrush, toothpaste, laundry detergent and phone list of all the pizza places around town. On any other day I'd avoid Snowden like death, but right now, I have to physically fight the urge to hang a left, sprint up the stairs and rip that steaming mug of heaven from it's owner's hands and snuggling into his, or her, sheets. I trek on instead, passing Snowden on my left. On my right, the dark windows of the snow-day-cancelled classrooms of Kentia Hall.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Molly's dinner swings into my thigh with every quickening step.

I tuck my chin tighter to my chest and press forward, having no idea how far down Greene Street I've walked. The cold wind bites and pinches into any, every exposed portion of skin it can find, and the wind whips needles into my face. I squint my eyes shut, grind my teeth, pick up the pace even more.

Seeking respite, I let my mind wander, and when it does it wanders, ironically, and rather cheekily, straight to snow.

There are some things I’ll never forget for as long as I live. The toy clown coming alive in Poltergeist, for one. I was five years old when I saw Poltergeist on HBO. My dad said I walked into his room with eyes the size of dinner plates and I said, “I don't think I should've seen that.” I don’t remember saying that, but I do remember sleeping with the light on for three months afterwards. The Saturday morning on which I finally beat Mike Tyson in Mike Tyson’s Punch Out!!! for the first time--I will never forget that. I saw Poltergeist when I was five. I beat Mike Tyson in sixth grade--that would've made me 11. After that, a lot of shit happened in my life, I guess, and then Molly.  I don’t think there’s anything I will ever forget about Molly. 

The memory my mind goes to now is the day of our first snow. We were both Sophomores. It was February of 1993, and she had just moved into her apartment on Greene Street: the apartment I’m making my way to now. The snow was much lighter than any snow I’d seen in Ohio, ever, but the city itself reacted like Godzilla himself had just made Columbia his jogging route: closing all roads, businesses, and classrooms almost the second the first flake hit the ground.

I never liked snow, probably because I've always loved baseball, and to a kid who loves to play baseball as often as possible, snow is a unwelcome delay of game, a wasted weekend inside. And throughout my entire childhood, it never seemed to snow on the weekend unless we had spent the entire week planning a baseball game that would take place on said weekend. Unless we spent fifth period Social Studies deciding who was going to be Julio Franco and who would get to be Odibe McDowell. This snowed-out weekend bullshit happened so often that I began to take personal offense to it, like it was just snowing to piss off me and only me. So much so, that snow was the one thing I went to college in the south to get away from. To me, snow was a nuisance. Not to Molly, from Huntsville, Alabama. What was once the driveway-shovelling destroyer of my Saturdays was wide-eyed Molly’s first puppy, her Christmas morning, her first dance on Prom night. She shook me awake at just a little after seven that morning. Not nudged. I wouldn’t say russeled, either. She shook me awake, forceably and unforgivingly. I grunted as I awoke, as Molly focused into view. She was wearing my boxers and my Comstock High Lacrosse sweatshirt, but, as always, I noticed her smile first, before any of that.

“It’s snowing, baby!” she said. I’m not a writer by any means, but if I ever wrote a story about that day, I’d punctuate her sentence with an exclamation point, not for the volume of her declaration, which was barely a whisper, as delicate and soft as snow, but for the enthusiasm she packed into every word. It would represent not the volume of her words, but the wideness in her eyes.
“Wake up! It’s snowing!” she whispered, still shaking me until I obliged. 

Ten minutes later, just a little more than three years ago today, I sat on the balcony of the very apartment I was walking to right now. We sat hand-in-hand as we watched the snow fall, saying absolutely nothing at all for what seemed like hours on end, even when she pulled her gaze away from the hypnotic, "Chewie, hit the hyperdrive!" falling snow and into my eyes. She smiled that smile--that pretty girl from Huntsville Alabama seeing her first-snow smile--and scooted her chair closer, just a little. Then a little more. Then a little more, laughing. A little more, until our chairs were touching. She kissed me on the cheek, a quick peck, and smiled at me once again before resting her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her, kissed the top of her head while, below us, a group of bundled up students, probably freshmen, rolled snowballs and threw them at each other and made snow angels in the paper-towel thin layer of snow that had stuck so far. We went inside shortly after, not knowing or caring if our classes had been cancelled, and she put an extra comforter on the bed and we took our clothes off and afterwards she wrapped up in that extra comforter and got out of bed, twisting open the mini-blinds so she could watch the snow fall as she fell asleep in my arms. It was still snowing when we woke up six hours later. We spent the evening in bed, watching Seinfeld and Friends, and later she wrapped herself in the comforter, stood up again, disappeared for a long time, and while she was gone, I remember running my hand across the mattress where she had been, longing for her to come back. She came back with two cups of coffee, and I sipped mine from an adorable Snoopy mug, Woodstook sitting on his head, both holding steaming mugs of coffee, both smiling with eyes blissfully closed, the caption on the coffee cup read, “Happiness is a Warm Cup of Coffee.”

We fell asleep shortly after, and I remember her being warm. That’s another thing I’ll never forget: how warm Molly was. So warm and so calm on a day when the entire rest of the world wasn’t.

Her apartment building’s door handle is so cold it stings as I touch it. I quickly twist the knob and yank the door open in one awkward motion, pulling my had away and replacing it in my pocket just as fast. I slip through the door, stomp the snow off my shoes onto the rug in the building’s downstairs lobby, and my feet are so frozen that pins puncture them with each stop.

Cupping my hands, breathing into them for warmth, I stomp up the stairs towards Molly’s apartment, Molly’s dinner still swinging from my wrist. I stop at her front door, Number 9, signified with the “Welcome, Friends” doormat. I rummage through my jeans pocket for the key, hidden under the receipt for Molly’s chicken tenders and fries.

I open the door and I step inside.

“Molly?” I say, almost a little to myself. No answer, and I call her name a little bit louder. “Molly?”

Nothing.

I make my way through the living room, and wade straight into a mountain of clothes that had been clumsily discarded in the middle of room, embarrassed as I realize all of them are mine, and right then my stomach knots and I stop.

It’s suddenly very hard for me to move, and I find that I don’t really want to anymore. Molly doesn’t know I’m coming. I could about-face right out the front door. I have a Psych test tomorrow I should probably be studying for. At least 20 pages of “Rich in Love” to read. I could walk back to Bathesda, eat Molly’s dinner, watch the Channel 2 Movie of the Night, I think tonight it’s “Singles.” I love “Singles.”

I glance back at her apartment door. Turn around. My feet won't move.

“Hello?” she calls from somewhere behind me. “Is someone out there?”

My gaze stays fixed on the door, until I consciously pull it away. As I do I exhale forceably, audibly, and only then do I realize that I had been holding my breath. I try to speak, try to answer her, and am surprised that I can’t. Finally, laboriously:

“Hey. It’s me.”

“Davy!” she says. No. She sings. I can both hear and see the smile in her voice, which today, as always, is nothing short of angelic.

She has never, ever called me “Davy.”

“I’m in the bathtub! Come join!”

I step through the bathroom’s door-less doorway, hands still tucked deeply into pockets, teeth still chattering a bit, and starring back at me with the most inviting eyes and entrancing smile is Molly, naked, in the bath. Her head rests against the back of the tub as she beams up at me, a cigarette dangles from between her fingers on her right hand, which dangles over the edge of the tub. I glance from her eyes, to her breasts, to the lipstick smudged on the wine glass resting just outside of arms length on the corner of the tub, and I think she sees me see it because she laughs a mischevious laugh, and suddenly the “Davy” and that mischevious laugh makes sense.

She is so beautiful.

“Davy!” she repeats as if on cue, her voice a field of daisies. 

“Hello, Molly,” I say, and I can’t help but to laugh a bit as I say it. “How are you?”
“Hmmmmm?”

“I asked how are you?“

“Happy snow day!” she giggles.

She takes an over-exaggerated deep breath, squints her eyes shut, and slides downward until her head is fully submerged. She blows bubbles under, until she starts to laugh and she can’t take it.

Her head launches out of the water. She looks me in the eyes, and says “Happy snow day!” And she gazes up at me smiling, and I can’t help but to smile back.

Again I laugh, and she laughs back, and for a second I actually think about shedding my clothes and joining her in the tub.

“You start without me?” I ask, nodding at her wine glass.

“Jump in. Catch up.” she answers, smirks, almost dares, and I almost do. I almost do. I shrug my right shoulder instead. The plastic bag bobs up, swings out, hits me in the hip.

“Brought you lunch.”

“That had BETTER. Be chicken fingers." The words trip and fall, stumble out of her mouth.

"Yes." My best Brad Pitt as Floyd in True Romance impression.

She extends her arms. "Give me to them." And then she cackles like a madwoman and re-submerges herself.

She breaks the surface of the water and cackles.
.
“Hey, uh...can I get you some water or something, babe?”

“You can get me. Chicken fingers.” she giggles. Cackles. "Into my mouth." Tilts her head to the side. Puppy-dog adorable. 

I smile back. She is so beautiful.

"I'm fine, babe," she continues. "Just having fun! Get in here!"

 “I’ll be right back. I say, smiling, shrugging my shoulder again. "Leave this here?" The lunch bag bobs up, hits me in the thigh.

“Where are you going?”

“To get you some water”

“Davy. I want you…in this tub…in five minutes or less Davy Caldwell.” Every single word of that sentence was slurred. Her huge green eyes lock with mine and she pouts and she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my life.

“Maybe," I say, walking out of the room. Turn my head. "If you’re lucky,” I add, as an afterthought, in her living room.

In the kitchen, i pick her favorite glass. The Tervis tumbler with the Gamecock logo. I fill it with water. Add some ice. Make one for myself.

Back in the bathroom. Molly is passed out.


I don’t know if I was supposed to see the note. In fact, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t, at least not today. It was camoflaged, face down on the white ceramic tile floor, cigarette ash sprinkled on top of it, and as soon as I entered the bathroom, my eyes were drawn directly to it, even though I had completely missed it before. I rest the cups of water on top of the toilet, pinch the letter up between my thumb and pointer finger, shake it, cigarette ash snowflakes flutter off it as I do. I turn it over and almost don’t look even look at it, ready to fling aside her Sociology notes or weekly to-do list, and I almost do fling it aside instinctively, until I happen to notice the salutation at the top. In my hand is the beginnings of a letter, and the name in the salutation is mine. Not Davy this time, or even Dave, but

“My dearest David.”

She has never, ever called me “David.”

I start to read.

Fresh drops of water have caused most of the words to run, rendering most of Molly’s letter illegible, but I don’t have to squint or play detective to make out the first sentence, and I guess that’s the only sentence that really matters. They’re words we’ve skirted around, danced about, sidestepped for the last few months. The feeling behind those words had been there, lingering between us every time we were together, but the words themselves were never spoken, never put to ink until now.

My stomach tightens and cramps. My skin, freezing cold and wind-ravaged only seconds ago, instantly blushes and boils, and my undershirt instantly soaks with sweat.

I fold the letter. Drop my arms. The letter, as heavy and final as the words on it are, is surprisingly easy to look away from, and when I glance up from it, I find myself meeting my own gaze in Molly's bathroom mirror. I see eyes much sadder than Molly’s. Not sadder, really, but cloudier. I see a face full of just as many wishes but hardly any of her wonder. Hardly any of her hope. I look for solace.  Just a glimmer of Molly’s wide-eyed, girl from Huntsville, Alabama seeing her first snow smile, but I don’t see it. I don’t see anything, really. I don't see anything but Molly’s boyfriend.

I find that my gaze is much harder to pull my eyes away from than Molly’s letter was.

I'm in Molly's room, sitting on her bed. On the right side of the bed. My side of the bed. I had picked Molly up, carried her out of the bathtub. She had mumbled something when I did, but was asleep again before she even touched the bed. I’m watching her now, beside me, tucked snugly underneath two comforters, passed out and prone but still, somehow, utterly mesmorizing. Impossibly beautiful. Both comforters rise and fall with every delicate breath, and in each breath I see everything the world has ever meant to me.

She looks so warm. 

I reach down slowly and touch her face, softly, as if waking her would cause heaven to crumble and collapse. I brush my finger across her cheek.

She smiles.

She smiles as she sleeps, never once opening those eyes that so many times gave me hope and confidence and comfort from the cold.

My left finger continues to stroke Molly’s cheek. In my right hand is Molly’s note, the note I’m now absolutely sure I wasn’t supposed to find, at least not today. I’ve folded it neatly into fourths.

On her note is my reply.

I stand up slowly, and softly slide the note into her hand. I turn around, eyes fixed on my shoes, making absolutely sure not to see my reflection in her bathroom mirror as I pass. I make my way into her living room, around the mountain of discarded clothes, through her door, down the stairs, into the lobby, and back outside into the freezing cold.

We Ended Up at a Party at Scott's

Saturday, May 19, 1995
Mike
Freshman, Undeclared
Fort Mill, SC


We end up at a party at a house on Saluda, someone that Scott Sharkey’s brother, Kurt, knows. As soon as we walk through the door, Scott spots his brother instantly: short, stocky, slow, Southern, looks nothing like Scott. Scott runs over to talk to him, and Shane and Sean bolt off in the opposite direction, towards the keg, leaving me alone, drunk, eyes half open, red Dixie cup of vodka still in hand from the Alpha Chi mixer at Mad Hatter’s, and I stand in the doorway, looking, and the living room is packed with girls and boys and I’m living right through this and

The crowd has energy and there’s something about this that has energy and I smile and I try my best to take it all in, as I try to understand each and every person in this room—they all—they’re all from somewhere. The girl dancing by herself, by the fridge, three months ago, s

I just need to be alone.

I’m lying on top of the sheets on someone’s bed in someone’s room on the second floor of Curt Sharkey’s friend’s house, and I can see the red neon “Adluh Flour” factory sign in the sky just across Saluda, the “A” flickering on and off, and the all the lights are off. I am the only one in the room, on the bed, gold-framed Ray-Ban Aviators on, straight vodka in hand, when a brown-haired girl in jean shorts and a blue Chi Omega shirt sways in and sits down on the bed beside me, our heads resting against the headboard, directly under the same Resevoir Dogs poster Cruz has in his room and Garnett has in his. She was wearing a blue Chi Omega t-shirt and she was, I guess, gorgeous in a Midwestern sort of way. I didn’t know her and I didn’t want to and I didn’t look at her again, because I was drunk and her arrival had spoiled the intimacy of the moment, the sanctity and brooding I was going for and maybe hope she noticed but really I just wanted to be alone and I clinched my jaw and stared out the window at the flickering “A” and since the lights were off I wasn’t even sure she knew I was in the room on the bed next to her until she started to speak. She talked of date nights, of hand-holding, of nights spent curled up and shivering in the corner of the bed until he rolled over, possibly awake but probably asleep, and put his arm around her and her heart would slow and her skin would warm and she would fall back to sleep safely in his arms. She said this is what she needed. She talked of smiles that would make her shiver and touches that would make her arm erupt in goosebumps, and she asked me if I thought he loved her?

Did he ever really love me?

I turn to her, I sort of roll my head along the headboard and look at her, swallow, squint under my Ray-Bans, and her eyes are filled with tears, with hope, with need, with pleading, and I stare at her. I tilt my head  to one side, slant my eyebrows. She stares back at me and when she is sure I have nothing to say she erupts into tears and I don’t know why but I put my arms around her and cradle her,  as she buries her face into my shoulder, sobbs into my shoulder, and I run one hand softly up and down her back, and when I'm sure she is asleep I finish the rest of my drink—half a glass—in one unmercifull gulp, and after silently standing up and pulling the sheets over her shoulders, I pry her drink from her fingers and finished it as well

I crush the cup in my hand and let it fall to the floor.

As I walk out of the room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and it freezes me, draws me in. I  clinch my jaw at myself, squint, as I think about what she said. I think about smiles that would make someone shiver and touches that would make someone smile, and  then I look down at her, sleeping, needy, shrivled and pathetic in the bed beneath me, and I clinch my jaw tighter and turn away from her, disgusted, wishing I had not finished her drink but poured the rest of it over her face, into her eyes, told her I saw her boyfriend fucking Wendy Rogers in the Wings on Wheels bathroom last Sunday after the Bathesda House Bash party I didn't even want to go to.

But I couldn’t look away from her. Silent, sleeping softly, chest slowly rising and falling. I rip my gaze away from her, leave, slam the door behind her, hoping I had frightened her, woken her, and as I decend the staircase I realize that I have no idea, no concept, no point of reference for of any of the bullshit she was talking about, and now my eyes well up with tears as I wonder where in my life I had gone wrong, but after only three steps down the stairs a girl by the stereo glances up at me and immediately does a double-take and smiles and I smile back and as I smiled I realized that I, on the contrary, I had done everything right. Absolutely right. 

You Don't Want to See The Sun Go Down

Wednesday, June 2
Shane
English
Lexington, Kentucky


With one hand on the roof of his beige, weather-stained, dented, decrepit Isuzu pickup truck, the other hand, holding the key, already in the lock, Mike stops. He stops and he turns to me, as I hoped he would. His red Jansport backpack is slung around his shoulder. He’s wearing a white Tommy Hilfiger t-shirt, huge Tommy Hilfiger red and blue flag on the front, and he’s at least thirty feet away and there is very little light left outside but I can still just barely see myself reflected in his Ray-Bans, wondering if he can see himself reflected in mine, and I’m overcome with the realization—the absolute truth—that whatever Mike is about to say is something I’m going to remember for the rest of my life. I decide that the next sentence that comes out of Mike’s mouth, whatever it is, will be something I will remember for the rest of my life. 

I look back at him and wait, sepulchrul grey clouds encroaching behind him. At his feet, a circle of leaves catches wind and starts to swirl; the impetus of a storm. Thunder in the distance. A lone drop of cold rain on the tip of my nose. One on my forearm. Another on my calf, and one more on my nose. He removes his hat and his long black hair dumps into his face, over his eyes, over his Ray-Bans, blowing in the wind, and I take it as a salute, a gesture of respect. Almost out of reflex I remove my Ray-Bans.

 Today I knew exactly what Mike was going to say to me, and he said it, word for word, just like I knew he would, and this time I knew exactly what to say back to him.

Mike smiles at my reply, but just barely. He swipes his hair back, places his hat back on his head, turns back to his car, opens the door, starts his truck, and drives away. The rain picks up, almost on cue, as I stand in the parking lot and watch him go, watch him until his car turns down Gervais, makes a right on Assembly and disappears. Not because I want to watch him, but because I have to. Because I can’t move. Because my feet just won’t work. I try to make them, but they won’t.

This is how I remember Mike five hours later, as thunder rattles my windows, as rain pelts against my windshield, as my windshield wipers are doing seemingly no good as I drive down the 405. In front of me, the city, my city, my home, shrouded in blackness, in darkness, nothing more than a friend telling you a story his friend told him about a friend, the remnants of a fantastic dream you reach for just after you’ve awoke but just can’t seem to grasp.

Who am I to have known you? To have lived those nights beside you? To have seen and solved all of my dissonance within you?  Have you lived through these nights? Have you quieted your contentions in me? I reach out to you now. My brothers. My only brothers.

You Can't Fight the Devil

Saturday, November 11
Andrew
Freshman, Criminal Justice
Lake City, South Carolina

I knew this was how the night was gonna end. I knew it even before she rolled her eyes and walked away, even before Mike Langone wiped the blood from his mouth as we followed the train tracks back to Bathesda. I knew it this evening, in Mike Cruz’s room, as soon as I seen that smile; as soon as I seen those eyes. Shit, even at breakfast Mike Cruz’s eyes were red. I mean, obviously they were brown, but this morning, in the Bathesda cafeteria breakfast line, I seen them spark an angry red. I seen them spark hate like I ain’t never seen before, just for a second, but I swear to God I seen it. The three of us were in line together: me and Mike Cruz and Shane, but I was the only one who seen it. I ain’t sure, but I think Allison Patrick, in her tight Chi Omega sweatshirt, was the flint, and Brian Rabb, holding hands with her in the cafeteria line, kind of in front of her but more beside her--he was the steel. Those two together? Shit, man. Might as well been fire.

I've noticed that there’s always been something about love that’s drove Mike Cruz crazy. There’s always been something about happiness that’s made him simmer.  That same look—I saw it for the first time, just for a second, on move-in day when I saw him watch The Fist—you know—his roommate, Andrew Phister? When I saw him watch Andrew Phister kiss his girlfriend goodbye. I was standing in the doorway because me and my dad had just met The Fist and his dad in the lobby and we was helping them carry boxes up, and I guess the box I had was the last box because after I put it down, The Fist looked around, shrugged, said something in her ear, something I didn’t hear, put both his hands on his girlfriend’s hips and kissed her on the cheek, and when he did she started to cry.  It—I don’t know—I thought it was—I don’t know, beautiful, and I smiled, sort of, and he hugged her tighter and she cried harder, and, I don’t know why, embarrassed, I guess, but I couldn’t look down anymore, not in their direction anyway, so at that exact moment I looked over at Cruz, and that boy, he was starin’ right at them. He sort of—his chin went to his chest and his eyeballs rolled to the top of the eyelids so he was kind of glarin, up and over, and I had seen that spark in those eyes for the first time. Boy, I’d seen it. Those eyes—I don’t know. They weren’t looking at The Fist or his girlfriend or even the both of them, but it was like they were looking at that hug, if that makes sense. Sizing it up. Challenging the emotion behind it. Daring it to come his way. Daring the emotion that caused that hug to even try to make it's way into his heart, but almost scared of it, like Dracula to God’s Holy Cross, defying it but maybe bluffing, walking towards it, shoulders back, fangs dripping, so that his enemies didn’t know it was his weakness. Those eyes—I watched them, they were all I could see but they couldn’t see me. They didn’t blink, not once, and I couldn’t look away from them.

Like maybe that kiss had just reminded Cruz of his last kiss back home, but now that I think about it, more likely, there wasn’t a last kiss. Maybe there wasn’t no one to say goodbye to.

Whatever it was, the spark caught this morning and kindled all day long: at breakfast, in Economics, as he bought Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction movie posters at the Russell House poster sale. By dinner them eyes were full-on smoldering, and by the time we got to Jim Bowen’s party the fire had spread to his smile.

We're Living in Their Spare Time

Friday, Oct. 6
Mike
Freshman, Journalism & Mass Communications
Camden, SC

I’m standing in my boxers and nothing else and listening to WUSC as loud as my radio will allow. On it, a Greenday-ish song I don’t know and don’t hate. I’m playing Tecmo Super Bowl II on my Super Nintendo and drinking my second of Parrish’s Icehouses and eating the last slice of a pizza I picked up from Pizza Hut three hours ago but hadn’t started eating until now. I finish the last slice just as Kerry Collins completes a fourth-quarter touchdown pass to Sam Mills and the song I don’t know but decide I like ends and a similar-sounding song by a band called Less than Jake begins. Still chewing the last slice of pizza, I press the kick-the-extra-point button with one hand and take a drink of my beer with the other. Wait for the game clock to run out, and the score is 28-7, Panthers. I pump my fist once, reverently, to no one but the TV screen. I save my game, flick the controller down on Parrish’s bed, and switch the Super Nintendo and the TV off. Exhale dramatically.

I look at myself in the mirror. Rake my hair down into my face with both hands, over my eyes, before sweeping it all back again. I exhale dramatically. I pace around the room. Sit on my bed and consider my options. I could call Garnett, see if he’s up for dinner at Russell House, see if he’s heard about anything going on at Mad Hatters or McKensie’s tonight. If not, maybe get a beer or two with him at Orlando’s and go back to his room and watch Dazed and Confused again, or maybe Less than Zero, and borrow a few more of his roommate’s CDs. I could go downstairs, play Killer Instinct with those two guys from Barnwell. Jack off to Parrish’s movie he recorded off late-night Cinemax I secretly discovered on a VHS tape cleverly labeled, “The Program.”  I could go to Blatt and work out, run my hand across my abs almost instinctively, decide I don’t really need to. I could call Roxanne and Brenna, realize I don’t have their number. I glance at the clock. 7:25. I could go downstairs, grab a chicken sandwich, hope someone I know is in the cafeteria.

I stand up from my bed. Slouch down in my desk chair, hair flopping back into my eyes, and I shut my eyes tightly, rub them with both hands. I open my eyes and exhale, and when I do, I’m staring at the picture on my desk, the one using the plastic IHOP promo card holder Parrish stole last week as a frame. The one and only picture on my desk. The first picture I unpacked when I moved in. The picture Parrish asked me who the girl in the middle was, and I didn’t have an answer for him. The only picture that, I guess, really matters to me. In a dark bedroom in a beach house at Myrtle Beach. Me and Tim and Danny and Lee and Alexandra, a cigarette dangling from Danny’s mouth, Tim, in a white t-shirt with a lot of clocks on it, from a restaurant in, I think, Virginia. Me, tan, shirtless, in my gold-rimmed Ray-Ban aviators and a drunken bad-idea backwards grey beret. Lee is leaning into the shot, her long blond hair lies across one side of my chest, and, looking at the picture, I can actually feel its softness right now. Alex's arm is around my shoulder.

I glance at the clock. 7:27. She’s probably in her room, probably not even getting ready to go out yet.

I could call Alex.

I turn down the radio. I pick up the phone.

No. Not tonight. I hang the phone up. I look back at the picture for a long time before spinning it around so that it’s facing the wall. 

I exhale again, rub my eyes again, mentally note how dramatic I'm being. I stand up, pace the room again. It’s not until I’m flipping though my CDs--looking for something to listen to but not really--that the truth hits me. The truth is not that there is just nothing to do tonight. Well: the truth is that it’s the weekend and there are, in fact, a ton of things I could do. There are an infinite amount of decisions I could make, but the truth is that making those decisions, and even moreso the corresponding actions those decisions would lead to, would require a lot more effort than I’m willing and possibly even able to put in right now, and when not even the beckoning, crispy, buttery goodness of a Bathesda chicken sandwhich can get you up and out of your room, there’s only one thing left for you to do.

I slide into bed and pull the covers up over my shoulders, and all of my anxiety disappears and wave of peace washes over me as I realize I’ve made the right choice. I’m actually not going to miss this Friday night at all, and as I drift off into sleep I decide that life is just one long process of getting tired.

I Want To Live Right Through You

Sunday, May 9, 1995
Garnett
Freshman, Advertising
Springfield, OH

His name is Matt Funke, and on the basketball court he is a god. A left-handed,
fleet-footed, calf-sock-wearing god with a blink-and-you’re-his-bitch crossover and a thirty-foot jump shot that can only be described as a flawless piece of perfect performance art. He comes in on Monday and Wednesday evenings, usually around eight o’clock, and sometimes on Saturday mornings, if there wasn’t a party at Snowden or a sorority-sponsored something at McKenzie’s or Mad Hatter’s the night before. I try to time my rounds so I pass the gym while he’s on the court, and if the front desk is sufficiently manned and Dennis Taylor has the day off, I’ll stay for a few minutes and watch him play. Because Matt Funke is a god, and to watch him play is Heaven.

Today is Sunday. It’s all-day intramurals day at the Blatt P.E. Center, which means no pick-up games are allowed. Matt does not play intramurals, and I’m pretty sure Matt knows this rule, which is why I’m surprised to see him on the court this morning, complete with signature blonde bed-head and signature calf socks. He’s wearing white shorts today, instead of his usual light blue Minnesota Timberwolves shorts, and a navy blue t-shirt, “Hopewell All Stars” across the front in yellow script, the number “18” in yellow on the back.

I’m standing on the sidelines on Court 2 when I first see him. I’m swallowed in the center of a circle of adorably clueless Alpha Chis with matching green t-shirts and blonde hair, in the middle of my second attempt in explaining to them the rules of the same game they’ve played every Sunday for the last month and a half, so he doesn’t really register at first. The girls tilt their heads to the left, slant their eyebrows downward, crinkle their foreheads, tilt their heads to the right. I swear to God I actually hear the bubble-wrap pinch of their brain cells popping as I explain the win-by-two rule for the second time in ten minutes. I slow down, enunciating every word. My head throbs, and I silently curse what might be the beginnings of a hangover from the what I thought was only moderate alcohol consumption from the party Mike and I went to in Lucy Floyd’s room at Gambrell last night. These Alpha Chis nurse my headache like a jackhammer, and I rub my temples and briefly glance upwards, towards the ceiling, towards the heavens, and mentally ask God why, why he has forsaken me so on this Sunday, this holiest of days, and just as I do, I catch the immaculate arc of a pristine jump-shot, looping from left to right. My eyes widen and my jaw hangs. The loft is immaculate. The spin is hypnotic. The shot is miraculous—rapturous—all the proof I or anyone would ever need of God’s existence, a basketball fan’s equivalent of a Christian seeing Jesus’ face in a tortilla chip, and I swear I can faintly hear angles sing as the shot whips through the net. A jump-shot that glorious could only have been born from the hands of one man. I lower my clipboard and stand on my tip-toes, peeking over that bleached blonde horizon, and there he is. Matt Funke, in the gym, on a Sunday. I hope—need—to see just one more shot. And I do. And it is bliss.

In my months of watching him play, I’ve noticed that when Matt Funke shoots a basketball, everything and everyone else on the court, in the world, seems to quiet and fade. Today is no different. The babbling of Alpha Chis, the empty, soulless stares of their I’ll-fuck-you-for-a-Zima eyes, the golden glow of panty I saw for a fleeting second on the blonde A-D-Pi on the hip flexor machine downstairs, the Psychology 201 test I should be studying for right now, whether or not I’ll be able to afford food for the last week of this month—suddenly these things not only become trifles, but things I can’t believe I actually lent importance to in the first place. They become a late-night infomercial with the volume turned down. They become the fat Delta Zeta at Jungle Jim’s who sassily told me I wasn’t her type, oblivious to the fact that I was only speaking to score an “in” with her hot independent roommate. When Matt Funke steps on the court—sandy blonde hair always spiked up and out at impossible angles by some Zeta’s fingers the night before, his diamond-sharp Details-cover cheekbones permanently flexed, everything else in my entire life instantly and unavoidably becomes insignificant. I told myself I wasn’t that bad looking in my room last Friday as I tucked my Hilfiger polo shirt into my khakis, and I thought my suspicions were confirmed by the cute Kappa Delta who smiled at me in the Russell House cafeteria and I smiled back—until I see those cheekbones. Until I stand next to Matt and realize I am a good five inches shorter. I was James Bond suave when I was lying in bed last Sunday night, planning out the paragraph I was finally going to blurt out to that blonde Alpha Chi in my Advertising 103 class I’d been checking out all semester—until I see Matt’s black hole stare: vacant and infinite and yet intriguing and indiscriminately inescapable. But most of all—worst of all—is that I consider myself pretty okay at basketball until I see his jump shot. His glorious jump shot. But I don’t really see it, as much as feel it, in my stomach, in my knees, in my ego. Because Matt Funke hits jump shots no man should ever hit. And Matt Funke never, ever misses. 

 “So how many halves do we play, again?” number 25 asks me.

“Four,” I answer, still on my tip toes, still staring at Matt, and I honestly believe this girl’s head is full of Rice Krispies. I watch Matt’s release. I follow the ball as it spins in slow motion through the air, and I can unbelieveably make out the word “Spaulding” on every rotation as it sails towards the net. 

WHOO-CRASH!

All around me the sound explodes off the walls and echoes from the rafters. The swish of a basketball net is probably my favorite sound in the world, except for maybe the sound of a beer can opening, but Matt Funke’s jump shots—they don’t swish. They crack, like a bullwhip sound effect in an Indiana Jones movie.

“Wait…five girls on the court? I swear there were ten last time.” 

WHOO-CRASH!

Jesus Christ. If this girl had another brain, it’d die of loneliness.

“How much time until…”

WHOO-CRASH!

So beautiful I must see more. Now.

I press my palms together in a forward-pointing prayer gesture and part the sea of green-shirted Alpha Chi’s, making a beeline towards center court, not really caring what happens to them from this point on, not really capable of considering the consequences. The bullwhip crack of Matt Funke’s jump shot is my guiding beacon—the possible tease of just maybe watching him play an entire game is my only hope of salvation.

Because of actual job obligations that go along with being an employee of the Blatt P.E. Center—manning the weight room, giving facility tours, maintaining the most forcibly determined eye contact while reminding old, naked Lit professors that they can’t shave in the sauna—I’ve never seen Matt Funke play an entire game of basketball. I’ve only been able to hide out in the gym long enough to see him play in three-minute bursts, but every one of them is a highlight reel. All I’ve ever seen him do is dominate: effortlessly and unapologetically. He knows you’re going to cross over before you do. He doesn’t jump for rebounds, but he’s somehow always there when they drop. He dissects defenses like a Biology major, and he does it better than anyone I’ve ever seen, in person or on TV.

I’ve developed a theory about Matt Funke as I’ve watched him play throughout the year. I have no empirical or scientific data to back this up, but from my own field studies and observations, I’m absolutely convinced that Matt Funke isn’t human. I think he’s something much more existential and ethereal. Not an apparition, or even an angel, but a force. Something unexplainable, like a human-shaped manifestation of a fleeting twist of fate or a coincidence to spooky to write off as chance. He beats you at basketball like him beating you was just something the Universe had planned for you that day. You could’ve accidentally slept in that day and gotten to the gym an hour later than you had planned. You could’ve caught every green light on the way to the gym and ended up on the court 15 minutes earlier than you planned, causing you to get in on one pick-up game earlier then the one you would’ve ended up in had you just been stopped by one of those red lights, but it wouldn’t have mattered. You were destined to lose at basketball that day, and whatever time you would’ve gotten there, 8:00 at night or 8:00 in the morning, Matt would’ve made sure it happened. He would’ve been there waiting for you, ready to shut you out 11-0, care of the Cosmos. That’s what Matt’s ass-kickings are. Cosmic.

Having said that, as remarkable as Matt’s inherent talent for basketball is, it’s not what he does on the court that fascinates me most about him. It’s not how he does it, or even how easily he does it. It’s why he does it that makes it impossible for me to pull my eyes away from him. I can’t really explain it, but there is definitely a something lingering in the air when Matt is in the gym—something heavy and imposing—and I’m sure anyone else in the gym at the time will confirm this as fact, were you only to ask. It’s something I’d most liken to the presence of a fight at a hockey game, and the almost morbid disappointment you feel at the end of a game in which one didn’t break out. It’s that feeling that makes you reflexively stand up in your seat every time Mike Tyson lands a thunderous left hook to the body of his opponent. In all my years of watching him play, I’ve never once seen Matt smile. I’ve never seen him laugh, and I’ve never seen him acknowledge a teammate’s praise or slap a teammate on the ass after a bucket. I’ve never seen him—this is kind of hard to explain—but I’ve never seen him there. I’m even more sure that what Matt does on this court is not something I’d ever describe as playing a game. At least, not for him. Matt’s not playing basketball. He’s extracting vengeance. For him, basketball is a torture device, and it’s his socially acceptable way of torturing people as brutally, efficiently and publicly as possible, without any worry of recose or retaliation. With every glorious jump shot he hits he’s boiling blood, eviscerating egos, slicing up self-esteem, and there are two things I’m absolutely sure of: he likes doing it, and he has to do it. It’s the mysterious yet apparent depth of his hate that draws me to the gym whenever he’s there and my unsuitable need to understand it that forbids me from leaving. Watching him is intriguing like concentration camp photos, hypnotic like a knife-fight. It’s his play that puts you under, but it’s the containment of that hate and the possibility of it one day escaping that keeps you under, keeps you watching, until the game-point snap of the net whoo-crashing jolts you awake like the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers.

The Five Greatest Movie Guns of the 80s

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The Five Greatest Movie Guns of the 80s

Film was a relatively young media in the 1960s, and back then, when people used the term “movie controversy,” they were probably just referring to a guy pulling the “penis in the popcorn box” trick on his girlfriend at the drive-in. Awesomely, we now live in a time where finding an unexpected penis in your popcorn box is the least of your worries. [Something else here.] Worst of all: kids are killing each other and blaming it on the movies—more specifically—guns in movies. The irony is 1992’s Reservoir Dogs was booed by critics because it had too many guns in it, while 2002’s theatrical re-release of E.T. was jeered by fans because all the guns had been digitally replaced with walkie-talkies. That’s just how controversial guns are: they’re starting shit whether you’re putting them into your movie or taking them out.  

As a celebration of guns in movies, I bring you the top five movie guns of all time.

#5  The The Black Hole Gun

You can mimic the shape of this gun by making the “Rock-on” Devil Horns sign with your hand, but tucking your thumb in and turning your hand sideways.[need joke]. Disney’s The Black Hole taught the world that if you ever need to burn a hole in a mannequin painted by an A.D. to look like a robot, the Black Hole laser pistol is the best way to go. More here. And you might not land on the Cygnuss with knowlege or understanding of these guns, but all of your crew will have one in each hand by the second scene of the movie. 

#4 Jesse The Body’s Gun in Predator

Research has revealed to me that in real-life, this type of gun is typically mounted on helicopters. Anyone who’s seen this gun knows that it would’ve been a lot more practical for Jesse to just carry around the whole helicopter. More here.

#3 The Quadruple-Barreled Shotgun in Phantasm II

Anyone who’s watched as many horror movies as I have knows this fact: A horror movie weapons’ effectiveness is based on how cool it looks as opposed to how effective it would actually be in killing things. Since this is the long-established rule, why not add four more barrels to the shotgun and make it a six-barreled shotgun? Or four more? Why not have him just carry around Jackie Chan? More here. 

#2 Megatron (Transformers: The Movie)

Megatron is the only gun on this list that has never once shot anything. He is also the only gun on this list that spends it’s time thinking of ways to conquer the Earth when it’s not being a gun. I don’t say that as a point of sale to Megatron’s credit, though, because all of the other guns on this list could probably think of better plans.

Megatron is a 30-foot tall robot who can turn into a 30-foot-long gun, and he is obsessed with taking over the world, but can never quite figure out where to start or how to succeed, apparently forgetting that he is also 30-foot tall flying gun. If you're something that can be described as a 30-foot tall flying gun, you don't need to spend the majority of your time developing a satellite that could somehow seize control of Earth’s weather, allowing him to freeze the oceans, thus cutting off our tuna supply and punishing us into submission by forcing us to eat dinners that weren’t quite as tasty with lemon juice. That’d be like if Tom Brady walked into Dixie’s with a bottle of Dom Perignon in one hand and a handful of chocolate roofies in the other and spent his time alone in the corner sketching out on a napkin how to build a panty-remover contraption out of cocktail straws. 

#1 The Looker Gun (Looker, 1983)

The Looker Gun is the perfect example of movie science written by a writer that was probably writing his script when he should’ve been taking notes in science class. The looker gun shoots no bullets or lasers. Instead, it shoots a beam of light that puts whoever sees the light into a hypnotic trance for roughly an hour or two. And oh yeah, whoever's holding the gun is sometimes invisible and sometimes not, depending on whether or not the director of the movie happened to remember the Looker Gun powers on that particular day of filming. One last thing--if you’re wearing huge sunglasses you’re immune to the trance-inducing light it shoots, meaning the Looker Gun doesn’t work on Nicole Ritchie, the girls of Alpha Delta Pi, my Grandma, or child molesters.

The “Looker” gun is the greatest movie gun of all-time because it can do things that no inanimate object should be able to do. There is a scene in the movie where they try to explain the logic behind how the Looker Gun works, but since the gun itself defies all logic, the scene is moot. [More here]

So let me get this straight:  the Looker gun freezes whoever you shoot with it and makes whoever’s holding it invisible? Of course it wins the prize, because while all of the other guns in this article may kill aliens or turn into talking robots, the Looker Gun is the only one that will get you in and out of the girls’ locker room without getting sent to the principal’s office.

BLOOD BEACH!

Look at that movie poster. How rad does that look? Well, don't get excited--never has a movie promised so much and delivered so little. Oh, it had it's beach swallowings, but they were some of the most lethargic beach swallowings I've ever seen. I'm telling you--I've seen people panic more when they've driven half-way to work and realized they left thier coffee on the roof of their car. I remember how, when I was a kid, I would go absolutely insane when my hamster bit me or I got a splinter from our wooden deck. I'm pretty sure I'd take those fits at least a tad bit further if my favorite vacation spot straight-up ate me. Not the guys in Blood Beach, however. These guys gave barely a struggle, as if they lived in a world where there everyday routines consisted of their morning coffee, a few minutes on the treadmill, and--eh--another beach-eating. Honestly--these people did not care that they were being eaten by a sand creature. I think I even saw one of the victims look at his watch and roll his eyes on the way down. Like he was thinking, "Great! Now I'll never get to the store on time!" The worst was when, honestly, as one of the characters was being swallowed, he simply looked at another character and said, "help me" in the same tone of voice I'd use to ask someone to help me open a pickle jar. You see that bitch in the movie poster? She's not screaming...she's yawning.



There's a HUGE difference between bad-awesome and just bad. The biggest offense of Blood Beach was that, at it's core, it simply wasn't scary. However, a low budget, bad creature effects, and terrible acting don't translate into a low Shocktober Spectacular rating--In fact, it's usually the opposite. However, Blood Beach was not only not scary--it was not fun.


To Blood Beachs' credit, I can say one thing about it that I've never been able to say about another movie in the entire Shocktober Spectacular: the acting was phenomenal. Burt "Paulie" Young and John Saxon were on time. They were so good it was almost as if someone forgot to tell them they were in a movie called about a vacation destination whose favorite food is LADIES!


Back to the great acting, though, let's be honest...no one rents a movie called Blood Beach for great acting. The rent it for blood beachings. It's like that move The Gift. It was a fantastic film all around, and Keanu Reeves gave what was inarguably the performance of his career. To bad the only thing you remember about The Gift is Katie Holmes' tits.

Blood Beach is The Gift without Katie Holmes' tits.

One Jason Head. Because if you call a movie "Blood Beach," it damn well better have some blood in it.

NIGHTBREED!

Every now and then I actually end up enjoying the horror movie I'm reviewing. This, obviously, is good news for me while I’m watching the film, but bad news for me in the long run, because it means I don't have much to make fun of in my review, and long-time followers know that pointing out others' misfortunes is my bread and butter. This was sort of the case with Nightbreed. The movie wasn't bad at all, but all was not lost, for I had to look no farther than the movie's box to find that sweet lifeblood of the Shocktober Spectacular: unintentional hilarity. Here's what I'm talking about:

"A NEW REASON TO FEAR THE NIGHT!!!..."

...screams the movie poster, and it wasn't kidding! Right under that very warning stands a troupe of genetic atrocities so repugnant—so foul—that the very site of their deformed visages would turn even the hardest man’s soul black. Let's have a look:

Pictured, from R to L: Porcupine woman; Satan (aka "The Devil"); fat man with snakes living in his stomach; Lizard-Man (with parts of your little sister still probably stuck in his teeth from lunch); Craig Sheffer, girl with cat for half a head, man with….uh…wait a minute. Can we go back a couple of people? Craig Sheffer?!

What part of that dreamy coif and those chisled cheekbones give me a "new reason to fear the night?!" I know Craig must be tough because he's wearing a leather jacket, but I should probably point out one more time that standing behind him is A LIZARD-MAN!!!! That guy is a new reason for me to fear the night, the day, and pretty much any open spaces in general. Craig Scheffer?! He's a new reason for girls to cross out Jon Brandis's name on their Trapper Keepers, replace it with his, and surround it with tiny little hearts.

You know what my favorite part of this picture is? Imagining the fortitude Craig Sheffer's character must have had to stand in the company of these guys, right up front, in that pose, with that mad-dog look on his face, like he's actually the scariest one in this photo. Craig's never had a zit in his life! On the contrary, two people to his right is a man with a moon for a head.

I don't want to ruin things for Nightbreed fans, but I'm very excited about Nightbreed 2, in which the breed will be joined by two more reasons to fear the night:


Cindy Crawford, and


Elmo.

In all fairness, when Craig’s character gets angry, his eyes go red and he gets some lines on his face, but that’s when the real horror starts--when you realize that the monster Craig Sheffer is still better looking than you are.

Another thing about Nightbreed that had me rolling my eyes and uttering a heartfealt "What the hell?!" was the "mysterious" town of Midian. According to the movie's lore, "Midian" is a town inhabited by the abovementioned monsters. It's shrouded in secracy...while obviously dismissed by the sane as "myth," some people still beleive it to be real. Craig Sheffer's character has devoted his life to discovering Midian, but to no avail, which is why I thought it was absolutely hilarious that, later in the movie, Midian was INSTANTLY located by:

his girlfriend
a bar-hopping floozy (?)
Craig's psycologist
a backwoods store owner
a batallion of cops (?!)

I honestly believe you could put Stevie Wonder behind the wheel of a car and he could take you to Midian. Some seceret...hell, most people have a harder time finding the mall’s bathroom.

All kidding aside, I will now tell you what was really wrong with Nightbreed. It wanted to be more than it was, and, at some point, it very well may have been, but in the end, it wasn’t. The problem was, even after the end result, the director and the producer kept insisting it that it was, when we, the viewing public, had just watched the proof that said it wasn't. Get that? Clive Barker really wanted Nightbreed to be the one thing in the world that pisses me off the most: a horror movie metaphor. However, someone needs to tell Clive that just because you really want something to be something doesn’t mean it actually is, and no amount of jumping up and down and pointing at it and saying it is is going to actually turn it into one. Nightbreed wanted really badly to be legit, and at one point it actually almost achieved it. There’s a delightful scene in which one of the characters is decending into Midian, all the while glimpsing it’s grotesque inhabitants for brief seconds, each one more insanly disfigured than the last, but the scene wasn't frightening. With Danny Elfman’s score behind it, I'd go as far as to call the scene "playful." The monsters weren’t scary—it was almost as if creatures from Beetlejuice had accidently wondered onto the set of Nightbreed. This is due, in part, to the fact that the monsters were never really malicious in the first place, which brings us to the question the movie’s box itself asks, “In the battle of good versus evil, who is man, and who is monster?” I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that by the end I wasn’t rooting for the monsters, and I’d also be lying if I didn’t notice the irony of the movie’s real villain--a human who would don a horrifying mask to give him the face of a monster. Nightbreed was, in essence, a “it’s what’s on the inside that counts,” movie, but with one too many horror movie elements added. The end result was 50 percent horror movie, 50 percent not, and this undeciceviness created a distracting tone that made a possibly brilliant movie only mediocre.

HOUSE OF WAX

You know how sometimes, in the $50 round of Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, they’ll ask a ridiculously easy question and give four multiple-choice answers: one of which is obviously right, two that are just kind of there, and a goof answer that is so obviously wrong that you could have birth defects that haven’t even been discovered yet and still not pick it? For example, the question will be something like, “What color is a fire truck?” and the choices will be, “red,” “white,” “yellow,” and “your uncle’s penis in a shopping cart.” Well, if you decide to watch House of Wax, be prepared to spend ninety minutes with a group of kids who not only keep picking “D,” but keep acting surprised when they find out they’re wrong.

I’m not talking about typical “let’s split up—you go check out the woods while I go stick my head in the Iron Maiden and look for clues”- type shit. The characters in House of Wax are so slow they would need an even Specialer Olympics designed for them. For example: imagine you’re posed with the following question. “You’re all alone. While looking for your missing friend, you happen upon a completely deserted town. At the center of the town is a creepy house made of entirely of wax. Despite having just learned that the town was once populated by a wax-sculpture obsessed psycho and the huge “CLOSED” sign on the door, your best plan of action would be to: (A) Realize your friend is hanging from a meathook somewhere and go back home and call dibs on his "X-Box" before anyone else can, (B) regroup with your friends and notify the authorities, (C) Both A and B, or (D) Pick the lock and proceed into the house of wax. Two things worth noting: this type of shit happened throughout the entire movie, and this was actually one of the smarter instances of it happening.

I don’t care how sweet Paris Hilton’s death scene was…this constant moronic logic mentioned above completely ruined the movie for me. That, and the fact that the lead characters are a bunch of asshole punks that you will hate if you are any type of decent human being. By the end of the movie, they’ve chalked up three accounts of breaking and entering, one account of damaged property, and one account of assault. The film itself was molded from the same template as Hostel and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake, almost scene-for-scene, right down to the elongated, no cutaway, torture and death scene that all the horror movies of the early 2000s had. The only difference was that in House of Wax, the characters had to break into the house of the killer to get it. I’m telling you: these kids really had to work to get killed. Hopping over fences, tearing down “closed” signs, breaking windows, picking locks—you’d have an easier time escaping from Alcatraz, and even then, your prize for success would be freedom. I honestly believe that if this house’s welcome mat was a pool filled with alligators, these kids still would’ve found a way to get in, and what did they receive for their efforts? Hot wax in their orifices.

I give House of Wax TWO JASON HEADS, and I consider that generous for a movie who’s tough guy is Chad Michael Murray. That’s like saying Justin Timberlake is the toughest member of N’Sync. Maybe he is, but he’s still a member of N’Sync.

I should also note that a good one-and-a-half of those stars were earned by Elisha Cuthbert’s tank top.

Up next, a movie who’s title is only three letters away from being “Night Feeders.”

THE 2006 SHOCKTOBER SPECTACULAR!

My favorite holiday, by far, is Halloween. In fact, the only two things I enjoy more than Halloween are bad '80s horror movies and making fun of things, which is why, every Halloween, I decide to combine the three into one ultimate explosion of spookily-rad comedy.

For the last two years, I've pained my way through a ton of awful, awful horror movies, made fun of them, and called it the Shocktober Spectacular. It's my favoritest thing in the world to do, and I'm excited to announce that the 2006 edition of the Shocktober Spectacular will be beginning on Monday, October 2. I do at least two reviews a week, but since I'm a struggling, out-of-work actor who would, at this point, gladly sleep my way into a Miss Cleo infomercial, it looks like this year I'll be putting up three a week, and maybe even four. Of course, this year's edition will be especially rad because the finale will be a review of Night Feeders, the Citizen Kane of horror movies which stars...me.

If you're new to the Shocktober Spectacular, you can view the groundrules here.

And to get you in the spooky state of mind you can click here and here for a couple of my favorites from years past.

Stop by on Monday for the 2006 season opener!

The Dong Suite?

Here in Hollywood, entertainment is a huge industry. Whenever a new movie or album is coming out, studios go to amazing lengths to promote them.

My favorite promotion is the "building poster." A studio will rent out the entire side of a huge hotel or office skyscraper and slap a movie poster or album cover on the side. Imaganie a 30-story album cover.

The funny thing is, sometimes an album cover is just a picture of a person. For example, there's a 30-story picture of JAY-Z on the side of a hotel about a block from me.

I just think it's funny that someone will be staying in a room who's window is in the exact position as JAY-Z's dong.

I wonder if you can actually request the dong suite. I know I would. If "Night Feeders" ever hits it big and my picture ends up on the side of a hotel, I want all of you to come to Hollywood and request my dong suite.

The Worst Goddamned Myspace Bulletin I've Ever Been Forwarded

Remember how, back in eighth grade, you'd sit by your phone all day waiting for the girl you gave your number to to call you? Remember how absolutely batshit you went when the phone finally rang, and remember how disappointed you were when the call turned out to be just your mom? Myspace bulletins are the exact same thing. You're so happy to log in and find something new on the board, but youre so disappointed when you find out that the new message is only a cut-and-paste forward from someone who wants to kill you.

Every one of these bulletins are bad, but about four month ago I received in my inbox the worst goddamned bulletin Ive ever gotten. I was going to let it go until just last night, when I received the exact same bulletin again. Its so absolutely insane that I had to share it with all of you. It appears in all of its grammatically incorrect entirety below.

My commentary appears in bold.

5 PPL ACTUALLY GOT KILLED BY NOT SENDING THIS PIECE OF MAIL. [Bullshit. The only way that's possible is if they weren't forwarding this while falling out of a plane.] THE CREATOR OF THIS MAIL HAS A PROGRAM THAT WILL TRACK DOWN UR ADDRESS. [Nice. I have a finger that can use the phonebook to do the exact same thing. Plus, my address is printed on my curb. While Mystery Bulletin Creator was hopped up on Meth, hacking into government mainframes to discover where my issues of "Teen People" are sent, my neighbor was getting the same results by opening his blinds. Plus, how is someone going to kill me by knowing my address? I'm convinced that this bulletin is the first time "good memory" has ever been used as a murder weapon.] WHAT DO U HAVE TO LOSE? UR LIFE. PLZ REPOST! [With all those IM abbreviations, I have come to the conclusion that the person who wrote the program that learns my address and then kills me is either a 13-year-old girl or Kelly Clarkson.] THANK YOU AND HAVE A MEANINGFUL REST OF YOUR DAY. [Jesus.]

Sorry, but because u opened this you will die in 3 days. sorry. [After admitting to someone that you're responsible for their death, I'm not sure "sorry" quite cuts it. Neither do two "sorrys." The fact is, you could drive a dump truck full of sorrys right up my ass and as much as I'd appreciate it, I'd still rather be alive to watch tomorrow's episode of "Maury."] the only way you can reverse this is by reposting it within 5 minutes. good luck [What's the "good luck" for? Are you implying that I may have a hard time re-posting a bulletin? Thanks for the good luck wish asshole, but I'm pretty sure I could move the mouse and click on the "send" button even if I didn't have any Goddamned hands. Come to think of it, I've actually seen computers for paraplegics whose mouses operate on a "puff of air" system, but believe me. Instead of forwarding this bulletin, paraplegics' time would be much better spent blowing whatever the puff equivalent of "suck my fat one" is in an e-mail to you.]

By opening this chainmail u have been given bad luck for 2 months. [Which is sort of like adding insult to injury since I'll be dead in three days. I guess that means that not only will I be dead, but in Heaven I'll catch all the red lights.] If u repost this message then the bad luck will turn good. [Well get you some of this: I didn't repost this motherfucker about a month ago when I got it, and not only am I not dead, but last night I was flipping through TBS and I came across the Senior Skip Day episode of Saved By The Bell where Kelly Kapowski was in a bikini. If thats not good luck, youre going to have to send me a very detailed description of what is.]

Here are the rules.

Give the bulletin a name that has nothing to do with a chain letter because this letter is a trap. The more people that you trick, the better luck you will have
MAKE A TITLE TO THROW SOMEONE OFF [If there is any truth to the sentence "the more people you trick, the better luck you'll have," I should start buying some lottery tickets right now, because I spent three years of college convincing girls that I was a J-Crew model and Josh Hartnett's cousin (I'm not kidding). Not to mention, it doesnt matter if you give the letter a name that has noting to do with a chain letter or not, because this describes 99 percent of the things that appear on the Myspace bulletin board anyway. I've learned my lesson. I dont care how many times you put the words "Galaxain" or "Jean Claude Van Damme" in your title, I'm not clicking on it.]

So thats it. Basically, I got a forward from a guy who wanted to kill me so he could have good luck. The bulletin said "the more people you forward this to, the better luck you'll have." I looked at this guys page and he had over 500 "friends," which means right now, if that statement is true, hes sitting at his computer sending forwards from a land populated by candy and blowjobs.

And oh yeah. If you dont forward this blog to all of your friends by next Friday, your dong will explode.