Yesterday was a bad day. I went home and started crying so instead of sitting around feeling bad I decided to go visit Dean Martin at my afternoon local. He was having a rough time of things-telling me how much he misses having someone to sleep next to him. "You know what I mean? Of course you do" he said to me and I realized why I spend so much time hanging out with old men in dingy bars. I have more in common with them. I understand sudden loss, death, illness. I understand what it is like to deal with a body that no longer obeys one's will. I understand radical disappointment in yourself. I know what it's like to look back at the long struggle of your existence and think, "What the fuck was all that effort for?" Hence I end up hanging out with these old men. I don't know many thirty something who can bond with me about going through surgery or losing the love of my life, but I can do it with most of these guys because they know from the world being a rough place.


Still sitting there listening to Dean mourn his wife just made me feel worse because in the words of Humphrey Bogart "Nobody ever loved me that much." When Eric left I envied people who had lost wives and husbands in 9-11, sick as it is to admit, because death at the very least isn't personal. If Eric wasn't calling because he was dead, I would have ben overfuckingjoyed, but he was just dead to me. Same with asshat. No burial. No eulogy. He's a living ghost. One who would rather sleep alone than with me. Doesn't that just frost my flakes in the morning? Even the fucking degenerates of the world think they can do better.



Nice Guy Eddie called and asked to take me out to give Molly Pitcher's, formerly known as F's, a shot. Molly Pitcher's is a yuppified ho factory. It was strange to be there and think of how comforting, how familiar this bar had once been for me and now I couldn't even recognize it. Another loss, another of my few safe hang-outs given over to the very people who make my life miserable-those traditionally "pretty" girls with their banana republic ensembles, their blah badly highlighted hair, their wouldn't know a decent movie or literary reference if it pulled up and bought them a martini minds-those girls who can wear heels and flipflops and feel the sand under their feet when they walk on the beach and not have to think about running upstairs-whose bodies obey them effortlessly and they don't even have the good sense to be appropriately godddamned grateful-you know those girls that men fall in love with and marry and then want to cheat on them with me-because I'm not worth marrying-I'm more the pin up girl type-the fluff on the side-I'm the type of girl that men want in small doses but not all the time-much like jamaica I'm a nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to live here.


And forgive me for saying it but Nice Guy Eddie is another one of them-rather be with his girlfriend who lives in fucking California and has no intention of moving here than with me. Genius at fucking work I tell you.


So I get up to go to the ladies, trying desperately NOT to think all of these thoughts, and when I return the bouncer, this huge black guy asks "How tall are you?" Right cause that was exactly what I needed to make my day complete. So I told him and asked him the same-he was 6 ft 6in. Eddie chided me for giving this guy the shrug off "He could have been your rebound guy. And you would have gotten free drinks!" I told him that I had already been the bouncer route and never again (also included no bartenders or actors). In addition any man whose opening line is to inquire about my height is right the fuck out of the running. One of things I miss about the Asshat with an Accent is that he made me feel normal. This is the advantage of finding someone much crazier than yourself. But also he was close to my size, and this was a big deal. Still he thought of himself as an outsider-partially because he is a short man. Well let me tell you something, he belongs more than I do. He at least gets to go to movies and see men who reflect his physical reality. Don't trust me? Well there are lots of short male actors. Short women? Well since Linda Hunt and Rhea Perlman aren't doing much work lately,the only way I can watch a movie and see anyone who might vaguely identify with my physical reality is to watch Seed of Chucky.And doesn't that make me feel good that I can only identify with films about supernaturally possessed serial killing cross dressing dolls. (Incidentally even Linda Hunt is three inches taller than I am.) So let me tune my violin so I can play moonriver just for the short men of the world.


I just want to be able to get a drink, ride the subway, walk down the street without feeling that people look at me like I'm the last freakin' unicorn. I mean people blatantly turn around to look at me and not in appreciative way but in a "did I just really see that?" kind of way. But apparently it is too much to ask that I get to feel even remotely normal. No wonder I became an "isolationist" when the world greets me so warmly.


New t-shirt idea: It's not that I hate all men. Just every one I ever met.
I was on the train yesterday. I was in one of my Caligula moods. So frustrated by having to constantly sit next to loving freakin' couples that the fist I was making turned my knuckles white and left nail marks embedded in my palm. It is rare that I look for a fight, even on my worst days. I tend to have that New Englander "pardon me while I avoid this confrontation." As you might be able to tell from the blog, I am passive agressive, not agressive agressive.


Well, most of the time.


This woman, probably about 22 or younger, was on the train with her two children. If she was a little rough with her children, OK who am I to judge? I don't have kids. Did I approve of them eating cheetos when their mother was clearly on her way to morbidly obese? No, but again when you consider that I spent two weeks on an all alcohol and tylenol pm diet-again who am I to judge?


A fifty year old Asian woman got on the train. She had a cane and asked for the mother to move down a bit so she could sit. The mother said hold on a minute, but then proceeded to seemingly ignore the woman's request. The woman said, "I would like to sit down now please." Well, this mother made a big show of moving herself and her kids down and then proceeded to talk very loudly to herself about "This bitch who can't wait to sit. I told you to wait, and you can't wait. You don't know me. I'll cut you. I'm from the fucking Bronx." Now she is sitting right next to the Asian woman who looks at this ranting mother. "What? What? What the fuck is wrong with you now? You want to fuck with me?" At the next stop the woman next to me got up, and the Asian woman took her seat. The mother got up, "That's right you better move because I would kill you, bitch. That's why I hate white women, man, they mad stupid. I'll take you're fuckin' purse, bitch. You lucky I got my kids, cause I'd fuckin' kill you. You don't know me. That's why I shouldn't go out below 125th st. Can't stand these stupid fucking white people."


Now perhaps normally I wouldn't have done anything, but thism onologue KEPT ON GOING. I mean there was no end in sight even after the Asian woman moved, and I was just sick to death of this woman's ranting. This? This was the worst fucking thing to happen to her today? I mean christ on my worst fucking day, on the days when I started the morning by drinking gatorade and vodka, I wasn't this ridiculous. Then this mother started walking towards the Asian woman. The woman on the other side of me to my seat mate "Maybe you should change cars." At which point I stood up.


"You want to take somebody out, take me." She looked at me and started to launch into her "you don't know me" routine. I stopped her. "No, YOU don't know ME. I've been battling terminal cancer for the last five years. I've seen about every kind of physical pain there is, and I still have hell to look forward to. So you feel the need to take your anger out on somebody go for it. You want to kill me. Go ahead. Have fun." She gave me this stare down, and I just smiled at her. Not the "I'm a crazy fucker" smile, but the "I have no fear" at all smile.


There is a look of terror that passes over a crazy person's face when he/she realizes he/she is looking at someone way crazier than they can ever hope to be. That look flitted across her face. "You're lucky..." "Lucky what? That you aren't crazy enough to beat someone half your size in front of a subway car of onlookers. Yeah, I'm overfreakin' joyed. Look as I said, you want to beat somebody go ahead, but if not then shut the fuck up."


She stood there for a moment. There was complete silence in the car-these two crazies about to go head to head-these poor people worried that they were going to have to take blood soaked suits to the dry cleaners. But then she turned and sat down. Lucky for me that the next stop was mine. As I walked to the exit door I said "And incidentally you should be more polite to strangers. Because THIS stupid white bitch is a public school teacher and imagine the embarassment if I get your kids in the Fall."


Now of course almost ALL of what I said was a complete lie, but really what I said didn't matter. She was banking on fear, and she didn't expect someone to stand up to her. Once the Asian woman moved, the mother knew she had a victim she could harass. But as I say I can out crazy anyone any day of the week. Unfortunately not even that made me feel better.


Courtesy of a miswritten link, blogmonkey accidentally posted a link to this post at the nonist which features some of the more interesting Russian prison tattoos. Honestly I hadn't given prison tattoos, Russian or otherwise, much thought, but this one here caught my eye. I thought right across my breasts might be a nice place for it.


I decided to search for more Russian tats and found this chick who apparently thought tattoos weren't hardcore enough. Part of Scar Wars she put up this picture.













Yahoo in its ultimately accomodating spirit has seen fit host a teen Russian brides group. Why is there not an early thirties male order husbands site? C'mon I just need someone to vacuum and reach the top shelf at the supermarket with an occassional snuggle.
Perhaps it is only continued sleep deprivation malaise, but my depression is rapidly creeping up on me, as if I am Artax in the Swamp of Sadness. My need to insult the asshat is indicative of my need to feel better than somebody. Unfortunately you know it's really bad when insulting wee russian asshats doesn't make you feel better. Last night I almost cried after watching Seed of Chucky. Christ even supernaturally possessed serially killing UGLY dolls get love. As my former friend Jin used to say, even garbage cans dare to dream. And with some of us, that's all we do.


(Title courtesy of Bill Hicks)


So Netflix fucked me again. I had Love and Death on my queue, something ridiculous like number 143 (I have 300 movies in my queue-sick I know), and Netflix in its ultimate wisdom decides NOW to send me a film about a 5 foot 6 inch guy in Russia who attempts to assasinate Napoleon. Gee, thanks for all the help in getting over my heartbreak guys. I have a hangnail you can pour lemon juice on later you sadistic twits. However, there is one fabulous line, which should be remember on the off chance you end up confronted with a wee Russian asshat.


"I grew to full manhood. Well, five foot six, which is not full manhood in Russia, but at least you can own property."


And from the I knew he came from Minsk for a reason dept.


"We dropped Berkoff at a village idiots convention in Minsk. Idiots were coming from all over the world to be there."


The village idiot in question hates the french, who interestingly have developed this solution to malnutrition derived from the Paris-based Doctors Without Borders program (my uncle took part in this program for a year). Whereas the Russians have a amputee mail order bride site. ( Both of these sites were posted yesterday on Metafilter.)


Am I bitter?


Absolutely.
OK 2 things. Most importantly you all only have hours to get me to my 500 goal. All I need is thirty dollars. If a bunch of you get together and give two dollars, you can get me there. C'mon dig deep. 2. It looks like I donated 150 dollars to myself, but really my mother and grandmother gave me cash and asked me to donate on their behalf; I just didn't have the time to create ids for both of them. So, no, I didn't donate to myself to get to the goal.


Now go to the blogathon page or I shall taunt you a second time.
At around five thirty am, during the blogathon, I really began to feel awful and alone. Usually it's hunger that makes me depressed, rarely sleep deprivation, but suddenly I had this "what the hell am I doing this all for?" fullblown malaise, and, of course, the only person I felt like I could talk to about it was Bakerina who was going through her own private hell of endurance. When Blogmonkey returned, he assured me that he went through the same thing the year before when he participated. I went round to his archives to check, and indeed he did. He told me I would have a very different feeling if I held on till the end. I was skeptical; I always am especially of claims coming from men who are protected by the fact that they are on the other side of the Atlantic. The monkey was indeed correct, and when I finished I felt this huge rush of accomplishment. When I decided to do the 'thon, I thought it would be fun. I thought "Hey its really good excuse to do what I desperately want to do anyway waste all my time online blogging and writing about horror films-and sure it will be self aggrandizing as well because I can say I am doing it for charity AND I'll get a buttload of hits." And even at hour 27 (I woke up at 7 the morning of the blogathon to make sure I was wide awake for the beginning of the thon-I'm not sure why it was important not to start the blogathon tired, but it seemed important at the time) when I was rabbiting on at my mother about all the IMs and comments and support, it hadn't really hit me. It hit me at about seven last night-a little over 200 bloggers managed to raise at last count over 57,000 dollars for charity, and 27,000 of that was raised in less than a week (or so I seem to remember) truly amazing. The totality of that accomplishment was just amazing. I'm still sitting here going "No fucking way. NO FUCKING WAY." But indeed it is true. For confirmation, or to donate as donations are still being accepted, go to the blogathon site.


And now back to me

I'm still not fully recovered, and this is the last week of classes so I am right now in writing finals, reading research papers, calculating final grades hell which will continue until next week. So that link love I promise all y'all it's comin', but be a little patient this week. I could really use some paper grading elves since apparently the vacuuming green card husband thing isn't working out for me just yet. Speaking of how to tell off a guy who desperately deserves it, can someone please tell Jennifer Aniston to call me because the idea her comment on Brad's hair ("Billy Idol called and wants his looks back")constitutes wit is insulting. Queen Hairdo needs me to show her how its done. And if she can't do it, well I can be hired to consult.


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Am I only the person who thinks that this kid is going to need serious therapy when he grows up for being the child version of Steve Buscemi? ("Was he funny lookin' in any particular way?"-Fargo) Every time some film needs a "creepy" kid, his agent gets a call. It's going to get to him at some point I'm guessing.

Well after about five hours of sleep, I am again awake. My mother doesn't believe in curtains so the house is both bright and hot. I figure I'll stay awake for a bit then go to bed early and take the train into work tomorrow. Sure I won't have a text book, and I'll be completely unprepared-but I will say this-this is the upside to being brilliant. I will manage to pull a rabbit out of my hat. I'm just going to have a nice bath in You Crack the Whip (I certainly do), have some sangria and leftovers, watch some Psycho III or Gremlins II, and not think about all the work I am going to have to do VERY QUICKLY tomorrow morning. At this point, I think I may have made denial a more legitimate art form than interpretive dance.

The first Ed Wood film I ever saw courtesy of MST3K ( can't believe I made it all night and THIS is the first reference). The first line is from Swedish wrestler Tor Johnson. Tom Servo joked that he was also the star of "She Tor a Yellow Ribbon." I don't know why but awake or sleep deprived the idea of Tor Johnson with a yellow ribbon on his head his funny. Well it was seven hours ago whenI was planning this as my big finish.

What have we learned?
1. Bunni knows WAY too many films.
2. Every academy award winner has been in one film he/she wished he/she hadn't signed on for.
3. All horror sequels eventually end up in either NYC or space or both.
4. All horror films have SOMETHING redeeming.
5. Given enough sleep deprivation I am still more put together intellectually than my students although I can't spell
6. Blogging for 24 hours is very different from staying up all night watching horror films.
7. I need to put some of these quotes on t-shirts.


Well it's been a hell of night-around six o'clock there I wanted to die. Of course NOW I am totally awake, but on my second glass of sangria. I finally got to hear blogmonkey's voice! I will post a final audio blog since I don't trust my phelanges anymore. I am listening to the Ramones right now in the interest of symmetry. How the hell do you spell that? Well it doesn't matter. Marve the killer bunny has been here on my desk the whole damn time. And I would like to thank him and the people at IMDB for their constant presence through this whole ordeal.


My mother has promise 100 dollars and my grandmother 50 and daddy warbucks another 50 which I will add when I am again sentient. This bring me to 70 dollars short of 500 dollars. How can I not do this again? Making insomnia pay. Although next uear I think it should be the import blogmonkey to NYC fund. Lord I never thought I would say this but it safer here.


I know I raised money and so forth but boy it would make me feel good if when I woke up there were supportive comments waiting for me (hint hint). It's like crossing the finish line man. It's like that day I walked sixy fucking blocks. I just want people to throw confetti and so forth. Because, as I said in the beginning, it really is all about me. Except when its about blogmonkey or bakerina or rabid or well you get my point....


Indeed, it is time to go bed. I will blog when I get up about my plan for returning to work and thanking the appropriate parties for offering support, pico, sheana, bakerina, etc. I don't even have the energy to link right now. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go die now.


(Insert here Tom Servo singing "Harry and the kids are dead.")
The comic Bobby Slade says "Notice how horror films begin to sound like your mother? Don't go in the water. Don't go upstairs Don't play with the boy next door he has killed before he could kill again."

From classic cult film director Ed Wood "Time for to good to bed now"


From the same film " I will breed a race of supermen to conquer the world!"

Blogger Status: Pouring the celebratory sangria libation! Do know how good I have been? whole pitcher full of the stuff and this is the first I've had since 8!

A pretty accurate description of my emotional and physical state right now. Sick to my stomach, exhausted, but with a heart that feels like exploding. At what point did this seem like a good idea? When did I think this would be fun? My mother just came down and said "Will you do this again next year?" Of course I will I raised money for a good cause, but I'll do it during my vacation next time.


I digress.


Well that marks the end of the Stephen King films in case you wanted to know.



Our good friend Oliver Platt makes a return in this film as the voice of sanity, and Keifer Sutherland welcomes us as well as the tormented "hero."


You'll never know the fear of losing someone like you when you're someone like me.


A true rarity this film not only stars an Academy Award Winner, but the actress received it for acting in this film.


Blogger status: I'll be honest with you when Rabid sent me that quote it seemed profound-now I don't even know what the fuck it means.
Starring former brat packer Andrew McCarthy as the homicidal medical student wannabe-the ridiculousness of a character so obsessed with becoming a healer he is willing to become a killer would have appealed to my father ( remember his strange anti-medical slant). David gives an inspired performance as a junk food addicted agoraphobic which is not to be missed.

Why stop there? Let the medical school themed horror films continue: "I did not come to medical school to murder my class mates no matter how deranged they might be."


Also from the same film "Philosophy failed. Religion failed. Now it's time for medical science to try. "

Special bonus points to anyone who can connect a certain star of this film to Dario Argento in six leaps.
John Leguizamo (don't ask me to check spelling at this point you know who I mean) makes this comment after being bitten by a zombie. Can I ask you all something? Is it me or were there racial overtones to that movie? The evolved black gas station attendant zombie and the hispanic flunkie cum zombie gang up to kill the white guy who is in charge of everything. Perhaps its the sleep deprivation talking, but maybe there was some social commentary there. Some really cliche, been there, done that, have the t-shirt, read the book, bought the film rights commentary.The director was Dario Argento and his daughter by his writing collaborator and long time companion Daria Niccoldini was the romantic lead in this film. This film also proved to me that a shadow can be fucking revolting-seriously.


Premise: David Chappelle plays a computer nerd agoraphobic in one of his first film appearances in a movie about a serial killer who is determined to get into medical school.


Blogger status: Special points to Bakerina who is doing better than I am as I actually had the wrong title for this film until she pointed it out as well as the jamie kennedy/farr faux pas. Damn it. So out of it-don't even know if I'm making sense at this point-How many more movies left? Can I make an irrelevant confession here? I miss having a boyfriend. Really. I know, you're thinking, uh not really the time to discuss, but I find anger to be motivating so why the hell not? Really having some guy cheering me on the sidelines telling me he is proud of me and what I am going to accomplish with this grand feat and then tuck me into bed and snuggle with me. Is that really so much to ask for? Really? I know this last week I've really been appreciating the fabulous friends I've managed to surround myself with-but I like kissing by god I do-I could use some right now-anyone know anyone attractive, single, and ready to make a smooching housecall in the hudson area?
Continuing our musical theme from Fallen, this film features about the LEAST frightening song since "Yes we have no bananas." My father would have been a particular fan of the cathedral o' body parts, which gave the film a promising start, before it degenerated into pointless dreck. Not pointless enough however to keep some poor twit from penning a sequel starring the actor who played Leland Palmer (Laura Palmer's father) on Twin Peaks.



Denzel Washington is a cop stalking a Beatles lovin' demon. I guess rock n' roll really is the devil's music.


I think my favorite moment is when the mother and son duo makelove and you see them in the mirror in their wierd rubberized catbeing suits. Ah yes mutant lovemaking-always a big hit. Of course, the young villian would later show up as the "white lighter" husband on Charmed.


Cop 1: I got a bad feeling about this.
Cop 2: Yeah, me too. Somebody is playing with my dick and it ain't me.


This film stars another academy award nominee but he is also the star of several other horror films.


Blogger status: OK I have reached the level of sleep deprived where I keep panicking and thinking "Christ when did I post last?" and then I check it was five minutes ago. In addition the whole blogging about horror films is beginning to spook me out. I keep expecting like some giant rubbery alien to jump out from behind the window or something. I am also freaked out that my computer is suddenly going to crash and I'm going to lose all my pledges. Next year I am going to have to choose a more warm and fuzzy theme like "48 movie lines to live your life by."
Three years after winning the Academy Award for Best Actor in Shine, Australian actor Geoffrey Rush appeared in this remake of a Vincent Price film. Oh look I still have some trivia left in me after all!


Premise: Alledgedly based on a Stephen King script this film is about a mother and son team who must feed on the life force of a virgin in order to stay alive.

Blogger status: Trading Dangerous Brothers lines with Bakerina while chatting with Blogmonkey. Apparently last year when my monkey did this he was brave enough to take pics and post them. Thankfully I am not doing that as currently I look like a Russian refugee. Can I say Russian a few more times...russian, russian, russian


russian
OK it seems from here on out, it's going to be personal confession time because I am running low on the trivia at this point. When I was growing up, there was a movie theater up the hill and in the summer it used to run 24 creature features and the like. Since it had air conditioning, my friends and I often made the trek to watch films such as this an alledged 3-D film which sported only two 3-D shots-some boulders rolling and a tree. I can't tell you how exciting that tree was. Christ I lived in CT. If I wanted to see a 3-D tree, hundreds of them, all I had to do was walk outside. The aliens, also, were patently ridiculous as well as slow moving-greatly reducing their threat. Still when that movie theater closed I was very sad. It tried to keep that old time feel to it. The last night it was open it played Casablanca. I wish I had walked up the hill that night to see it.


"You go ahead darling, I'm just going to run boiling hot water over the places you just touched me."


This loose remake of a Vincent Price classic features another academy award WINNER AFTER he won the award. As Chris Rock says, makes you wonder how much his mortgage is.
More Bruce Campbell-y goodness as he stars as an Elvis impersonator who really is Elvis and his sidekick a black man who is actually JFK. Insults are hurled in cuneform, and the mummy in question steals the lifeforce of mortals by sucking it out their asses. Seriously. Can't miss with this cult classic. My father would have loved it.


Premise: This obscure 1950's red scare body snatcher-y film is actually in 3-D. The alien design seems to be based on a hybrid between a cyclops and an octopus.
Featuring perhaps one of the best scenes involving a chainsaw and a hooker, although personally I was rooting for the hooker.



Stephen King fans rejoice! This is not the last we have heard of the best selling horror writer from Maine. I don't have much to say about Carrie except those of you who know me will understand the inside joke.


In honor of my lockjaw state more fun with break ups and serial killers (sensing a trend yet?):
Man: I don't think we should see each other any more.
Woman: Why? What's wrong?
Man:I need to engage in homocidal behaviour on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs.


Uh I think we should file this one under "it's not you, it's me."


Need another hint? It features one of the best murder scenes involving a stainless steel sledgehammer and a Huey Lewis and the News songs.


Blogger status: The odd thing is this blogathon is recapturing my childhood/teenage years. I would stay up all night watching horror films. Of course tonight I'm not watching them but writing about them. The real reason I stayed up was, honestly, I was afraid to go to sleep while it was the dark. And how did I combat this? Stay up watching horror films. Makes perfect sense in a sleep deprived juvenile way, doesn't it? No I suppose not. But at least it was good practice for this. On the other hand when I used to this I didn't have a job to go to on monday morning.
Oh yes, nothing like a werewolf sequel. And those freakin' Ruskies we knew they were up no good, but did we know that they were up to strange lycanhtropic experiments involving marsupials despite the fact THAT WOLVES AREN'T MARSUPIALS! Crickey, you'd think someone would have pointed that out in a meeting. "Uh guys, Kangaroos are marsupials, but wolves, nope, they're mammalian." I don't care how late it was and how much JD the screenwriters had, at what point did that make sense? And what kind of nepharious purpose could you have for a human/marsupial hybrid? For women the good news is it would cut down on the whole hand bag thing, but really what are the EVIL implications of a pouch?


The title, of course, comes from Peter Pan and I'm sure J.M. Barrie, who wasn't generally a violent man, would have just LOVED it being applied to pseudo punk vampires in Santa Monica. For those of us who remember the Coreys, this was one of the last films they managed to do together. It also features the most unlikely vampire coven leader ( a tv salesman?). It does, however, have one of the best damn closing lines ever. Grandpa walks through his house, which has been destroyed by the vampire attack, and without flinching walks directly to the refrigerator where he removes a cream soda and says "One thing I never did like about Santa Monica, all the goddamn vampires!" My father and I loved it for that alone.


When I saw this film with my best friend from childhood we had to sit in the front row because all the other seats were taken. The opening scene (the rushing across the water) had a strange 3-D effect so it was like we were in the movie.




Starring Michael Caine (who had pictures of him with two twelve year old girls that they got him to do this film?), one has to ask "If you thought the shark had it out for you WHY WOULD GO TO AN ISLAND?" Me I would heading for Iowa. Make that motherfucker work. Grow legs. Get some frequent flier miles. I'm thinking you would be more likely to see a fuckin' shark coming in Nebraska ."Hey there Vern ain't that a shark a stumpin' towards us?" "I believe it is, Velma. Better get my gun." And five minutes later the couple would have a new living room rug. I apologize for the gross characterization of rednecks, but REALLY. Of course what would make my day more than Jaws V: Land Shark?


The mythology behind Jaws is that I was taught to swim by the guy who was a victim in the first Jaws film. This is not entirely true. I learned how to swim when I was three, but the boy in question was indeed a lifeguard at the pool where my parents and I vacationed on martha's vineyard. Turns out someone important or most of the crew or something stayed there and as a kind of favor the director put the owner's son, who was a lifeguard during the summer, in the film. My father just liked the idea of me being taught to swim by a famous shark attack victim.