Voodoo Dreams

V is for Victor squashed under a train.



V is also for Vampira.



The best of anything is usually the original, and Maila Nurmi without a doubt made the best and sluttiest Vampira ever. Her character came to life when she attended a Masquerade Ball wearing a dress inspired from Morticia Addams, got the attention of some Hollywood big cheeses and the rest is campy, kitschy, 50's b-movie history.



Her most famous appearance of course is her role in what has been named the worst movie of all time, Plan 9 From Outer Space, the 1959 craptastically great sci-fi flick from who is named the worst director of all time, Ed Wood.



There've been tons of copycat Vampira characters and even songs written about her (most notably 1982's "Vampira" by the Misfits). But when you're spoofed as a Simpsons character named Booberella, you know you've made it.




* "Voodoo Dreams" by Les Baxter.

Unfortunate Jake

U is for Una who slipped down a drain.



U is also for undead.

I went to a Cub Scout Halloween party this week (you know I know how to party my face off) and all the little munchkins got to dress up in their costumes and play obnoxious games and go into sugar-overload right before bedtime and it was a HOOT as you can imagine and don't act like you're not jealous because I know you surely must be. Remember when we were kids and you'd start working on your costume like a month before Halloween? You'd never submit to a store-bought plastic one. But now, just about every costume on a kid is from the store and I didn't see one single vampire, mummy, ghost, zombie or any other undead creature of doom. I demand to know what GIVES? What happened to creativity? What happened to wanting to have the kick-assingest costume ever? Usually I'm the first to support laziness and slacking, but when did people get so unmotivated to do anything out of the ordinary? I do not approve. And also BAH HUMBUG.

Also at this par-tay, every year the Scouts has a theme and all the boys decorate a pumpkin according to said theme. This year was "Books and Fairy Tales", how hard can THAT be, right? And also, you can go crazy loco with your pumpkin, because that's such an easy theme to get wacky and creative and crafty with. Most of the pumpkins were half-assed and not at all related to the theme and that makes me sad. Won't someone think of the children?! Granted, there were 2 Tin Men and a Pinocchio which were cool, so I must give props when props are due.

However, we are the types to do something not ordinary and our pumpkin won the award for the Most Spectacular Pumpkin Of All Time Or Ever Will Be And No One Can Ever Make A Better One. Or something like that. And it took all of a few moments of thinking and about 10 minutes to make. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Shazam! Our Green Eggs and Ham pumpkin, (which has also come to be known as the Infected Ham around here):



We cut out egg shapes from green felt, a little outlining, a glued-on pom pom "yolk", bada bing bada boom, done. And THAT won. Wow. It's not even that good. Fools! I've tricked them with my craftiness. First stop: pumpkin contest win. Next stop: world domination.



* "Unfortunate Jake" by the Frantic Flintstones.

Thriller

Continuing on with the Halloween ABC's of the Gashlycrumb Tinies:

T is for Titus who flew into bits.



T is also for tree.

You know, about a month ago I was all sorts of crazy cuckoo for fall. But at this point of the season when the leaves are almost all off the trees and you have to warm up your car in the mornings, I can say I'm officially over it. It's been great and all, but I say GOOD DAY SIR. I forgot about all the crap parts of the season: carving pumpkins seems like super fun, but you forget about the actual gutting-out of the innards of the pumpkin and remind me again, why was this fun? And hot diggity, the leaves sure are purdy to look at when they change color and all, but then they fall off and rot and make your sinuses a very unhappy and frightening place for the next few months until the snow comes and I can bitch about how much snow sucks and I wish it was still Autumn. See how the mind of a grumpy girl works?

(This is what every inch of my yard looks like and the product of my migraine and sneezing doom. Guess who gets to rake it? And by "rake it" I mean do absolutely nothing.)



In fact, I think the makers of generic Claritin should put me on their annual Christmas card mailing list, to thank me for the buckets-o-cash I've thrown their way for these damn leaf mold allergies. And you know the Very Important Claritin Moguls' wives are all the Betty Crocker housewife types who send out those annoying family picture Xmas cards, the ones where The Perfect Family wear matching green turtlenecks and oversized sweaters with bells and light-up trees on them and go to JC Penney to have their retarded perma-smile faces captured on film to nauseate their friends and family, complete with a snowy winterland scene backdrop. And if you're really lucky you'll get a typed note about The Perfect Family and all their minute and meaningless "accomplishments" over the past year, thinking that the card recipients really care that Timmy is taking piano lessons and Bob scored a perfect game of golf when in reality no one gives a flying rat's ass and in a few years you'll find the Perfect Family's card thrown into a box of random loose pictures and no one will remember who they are or who they're related to. I think the Generic Claritin Big Cheeses owe me that much.

Welcome to the Poconos! Come see Autumn in it's splendor.




* "Thriller" by Michael Jackson.

Suicide Doors

S is for Susan who perished of fits.



S is also for Salem. As in Massachusetts. Not to be confused with that darn retarded cat from Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

Salem is a lovely and charming town, best know for a little blurb in history called the Salem Witch Trials, perhaps you've heard of it?



I haven't been there in years, not since my sister was doing her fancy-pants medical school learnin' in Gardner and we zipped off to Salem to do all the Salem-y things you'd expect: visit all the cheesetastic museums, did gravestone rubbings and went on haunted walking tours that sucked because A.) we were not haunted and B). there was walking involved. I've been a-itchin' to go back ever since but am far too busy with my Very Important and Meaningful Life. Slacking won't take care of it itself, you know. And anyway, I'm sure the people of Salem really want another out-of-state jackass in their town at Halloween the same way I really appreciate all the New Yorkers here up in my grill looking at leaves changing color and acting like the mountains are exciting and wonderful, because apparently there are no leaves in the state of New York to look at.

Ghosts in the graveyard or a random thing flying past the camera? You be the judge.



(While googling Salem, the interwebz thought perhaps I was searching for Salem cigarettes. "Who isn't?", I asked it back.)

Haunted Happenings is a good place to start, if you yourself are an out-of-state jackass looking to annoy the local Salemfolk. The site even tells you what events and outdoor tomfoolery are for the over-21 crowd, which of course is probably where I'd want to be firmly planted and not, say, at the Little Witches and Wizards Sock Hop.







*Suicide Doors" by Reverend Horton Heat.

Race With The Devil

R is for Rhoda consumed by a fire.



R is also for The Raven, the infamous poem by that crazy wackadoo Edgar Allen Poe. Making marrying your 13 year old cousin disturbing long before Jerry Lee Lewis did.




Proof that absinthe and opium just don't mix.

THE RAVEN (1845):

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!


*"Race With the Devil" by Gene Vincent.

The Queen Is Dead

Q is for Quentin who sank on a mire.




Q is also for queer, as in: it's so queer that my quest for Halloween Q words ended up in a quagmire.

You may be questioning that quote, in which case I think the quickest way for you to discover the quarry of it all is to try it yourself dammit, for I am no quack, though quite possibly in quicksand. I'll give you a quantity of high-quality quarters if you can do it. I feel like I've been in quiet quarantine this week, scouring words from Quixote to quixotic, Quadrophenia to quadriplegic, quantum to quasi. And now I feel rather queasy. But lets quit this quarrel and stand in queue in Quebec at the quad where we can go to the local quaint Queen's Pub to quench our thirst and use our quadriceps to eat quail. Afterwards, I'll buy you some Q-tips. If your quadruple bipass prevents you from quickly qualifying for the ale-drinking contest, then that leaves out a quantity of Quaaludes, doesn't it? Perhaps your talents at quartz-mining, quilt and quill-making is the quotient you've been questing. That is quite the quandary.




* The Queen is Dead byThe Smiths.