I know, I know it is difficult to be in such high demand, but unfortunately I will NOT be able to attend Song of the Dead tomorrow night. Really and truly sorry. Wanted to be there. Afterall I was one of the few who loved Zombie Prom: The Musical, but alas life being what it is I will not be able to show up. The poetry reading is still on and seeing how movie night with Bunni had such a great audience response I will be posting future movie dates.


And next time, I promise to be there. Really.
Last night as I was sitting in Snapper Creek, and whole bunch of urban hispters came in. There were three wasp waisted, rhinestone encrusted jeans spackled, stiletto heel tottering girls in the group. The guys were in the geek chic category, but the girls were Cosmo material all the way.


I turned to the Amazon's boyfriend, the Big Bad, and said, "I need a scope rifle." What I really wanted was some slavering hell beast to eat them. And not eat them in any slow and unoriginal way.


The wish fulfillment aspect of horror films is hard to overlook. Most viewers went to House of Wax to see Paris Hilton die. They were looking for the same satisfaction I was seeking in that bar. I tend to watch horror films where the victims are college students because it is a cathartic experience for me. My hostility towards college students is purged in, at best, a constructive fashion or, at worst, a neutral and passive expression.


Some villians overtly aknowledge that they are persecuted or punished for expressing the violent impulses that lie within our own psyches (Max in The Last Horror Movie, John Doe in Se7en), and in his essay "Why Literature?" Mario Vargas Llosa indicates that the longevity of sadistic authors, like the Marquis de Sade, is because those authors capture the readers id impulses towards violence.

The "moral" theory of horror films, that the "rules" of survival echo judeo-christian ethics, has been tossed around for quite a while. Scream stated these rules as:
1. Don't Have Sex
2. Don't Drink
3. Don't Do Drugs.*


However, considering the villianous treament of characters steeped in judeo-christian fanaticism (Carrie, Se7en, The People Under the Stairs, Neighborhood Watch), it is hard to accept that these films are an underhanded way of pitching morals to the jaded youth of America.

When I was at NYCHFF, I began to develop an alternative theory to the moral model. The majority of horror filmmakers are male and to boot, although they are some of the sweetest nicest guys, I'm fairly sure most of them weren't that popular in high school. Who were the popular kids? The athletes, the cheerleaders, the "beautiful" people. Of course, the "beautiful people" are the ones who are having sex, drinking, and doing drugs-while the rest of us were at doing our homework or watching Joe Bob Briggs or considering how amazingly depressing it is to grow up in Storrs CT.


So the death of characters who indulge in these drives shouldn't be taken as reinforcement of judeo-christian ethics but rather as simply another facet of wish fulfillment. Particularly the deaths of pretty young girls or happy couples who represent the unattainable goals of the filmmaker's youth. The success of these films indicates that audience identifies with these desires on an unconscious level, and the indulgence of these films is a cathartic way of releasing the repressed rage and frustration of being unable to have/be these characters.


Such a theory also might explain why girls don't like horror films as much. Who wants to work that hard to fulfill a role only to watch it be ridiculed and destroyed?


In words of Joel Robinson, so what do you think, sirs?

*Williamson ignored the non-moral rules: 1. Don't go into the attic/cellar
2. Don't go in the closet
3. Don't go in the water, even a shower
4. Don't split up
5. Don't back into a room
Ricardo isn't talking to me because of the comments I made about his stubby fingers in this post. Not much of a punishment, really. The last time I spoke to him he had gotten a mullet insisting that the look he was going for was "trailer trash." Before we address the issue of why anyone would knowingly court a "trailer trash" appearance, we must question why someone who openly admits to being "sensitive" about his appearance would then go ahead an invite ridicule of his hairstyle. Of course, logic has never been a strong suit with him, which may be why he hasn't realized yet that there is no such thing as an ironic mullet.


And while we are on the topic of crazy Russians, some of you may remember this asshat. As with all things Russian, I had been boycotting the asshat's site until Monday when, on a whim, I decided to see if he had finally drunken himself into homeless and found this post. Never have I been so happy that someone has broken up with me. The post isn't that ridiculous, but his comments to Karol are, as Bakerina said, so ludicrously girly that even Barbie would have been embarassed by the hissy fit-edness of it. He is a waste of a cock if ever there was one.


Beyond being a grand waste of a cock, he doesn't even have the nominal self awareness of Ricardo. He claims that when he shows women respect that it is simply wasted. For those of you who remember the less than spectacular treatment I received from him, you understand why I can't just let his idiocy stand uncorrected. Oh and if this post is accurate, he also recycles pet names. He did, however, manage to get one thing right-I'm not very good at being respected or respecting myself-after all I dated him.

But at the very least, Ivan was strangely happy to see my very critical comments on his site, unlike O who apparently no longer feels the need to return emails, write comments, or even respect the boundaries of others. To vanish for as long as he did and then show up and whine about a lack of comments on his own blog when he has completely ignored those of us who are devoted readers well it is enough to make me rent a car, buy a map of CT, and get my aluminum baseball bat out of the closet. I've been watching nothing but horror films for about two weeks straight. It is not a good idea to invite my wrath upon you.I've got a great imagination, a lot of free time, and,worst of all, very little self-restraint. So you boys, do yourselves a favor and behave.


Just so you don't think I'm a male basher, all of these things make me very grateful for the company of Kiss Kiss who is neither crazy nor so self absorbed that I have to get a diamond drill and a blow torch just to attract his attention. I'm lucky the universe has seen fit to remind me that there are some decent men in the world. I may not have been very good at finding men who respected me in the past, but it seems, at the very least, I may still be capable of learning.



*This post is for Bakerina. Originally I had the idea for this post weeks ago, but decided against writing it. Bakerina, however, has encouraged me that it must see the light of day, and I trust her. And even if I didn't, I owe her for all the lovely evenings I've had at chez Bakerina.
Ah yes, my adoring public. I know there are some of you who are desperate for an audience with the one and only Bunni. I hear your plea. For those of you who would like to hear me read, I'll be performing at an open mic at Rohr's Cafe on November 9th. I'll be honest with you, most of the poets there, well, you would get more enjoyment out of gargling with hot asphalt, but I'll be there and let's face it I'm worth it. Rohr's is located on 85th street between 2nd and 1st Ave. It's on the North side of the street right next to the Panorama cafe.


Also I will be rallying the troops to see Song of the Dead, a zombie musical which will be showing on November 5th at 10:45 pm at the Pioneer Theater. Say it loud, say it proud: BBBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNSSSSSSSSSSS!


As for last night, I took today off. My friend the Amazon loaded me up with enough candy to put me in a diabetic coma for the next three months. She re-awakened my deep love of pixie sticks. My lovely friend the Marmit showed up in a drag and let me just say DAMN-it ain't right how good that boy looks in a wig and dress. He and I ended up dirty dancing together around two am, and I'm sure the video will be on sale at eBay soon. Remember, bid early, bid often. I am going to go channel my inner cat and take a nap. More reviews to come as well as more scandalous stories of angelic hooterliciousness.

Whenever I have to teach on Halloween, I wear my glittery red devil horns and my smoking jacket. I know my students think I'm evil. I have one who consistently threatens to come to my office with "an old priest, a young priest, and whole lotta holy water." I've tried to explain to him that being born a Jew, I'm not really sure if that's the best way to exorcise me, but he's welcome to try. At least it's cheaper than psychotherapy.


What amazes me these days about riding the subway, walking around NYU, even hanging out at a coffee shop is how few people will admit to seeing the horns. Most people look away like I'm crazy. I've only seen one other person in costume today. One! Where did all the joy go people? It's Halloween in NYC. In the Village no less. That used to mean something. I can remember some years where Halloween was a two week event. The year my friend Treehugger dressed as a bear and I dressed as a Viking and everyone thought we were the most obscene bachelor party duo ever, I think we hit something ridiculous like 10 different costume parties. But these days it seems people just buy something in a bag and guzzle liquor, same as every weekend. Even as I type this only one of my students who walked into class has even noticed I'm wearing horns.


Tonight I'll be an angel, just for a reversal of fortune. Hopefully the party tonight, which was lame last year, will be more inspiring this year. Otherwise I'll have to look forward to my Halloween in November party with Kiss Kiss. (Listen, if they can start putting Christmas decorations in stores in October, I can have a little Halloween in November.) Those of you on the A list will get pictures. The rest of you will have to dream.
Apartment 206 by Gregory Zymet

Originally paired with Mainstream, this film also begins with a classic nightmare premise: a woman wakes up in alone in a strange room. As she explores her surroundings, a TV appears. Then another TV appears. Suddenly a young man stumbles into the room. The characters begin to explore and understand their surroundings and their relationship to each other.


The grainy washed out quality of the color palate gives this short the feel of a classic Twilight Zone episode. The premise, instead of hovering as ghosts deceased individuals who haven't let go of their earthly existence remain in a dingy apartment watching the lives of their loved ones on TV and drinking coffee, reminds me of a book by Will Self called How the Dead Live. In this book, told in first person narrative by a woman who has died of breast cancer, the dead of London simply move to a more obscure suburb and continue pretty much the same as when they were alive with the only notable difference being required attendance at Afterlife Anonymous.


Much like Mainstream, this film had few twists and a quiet creepiness. In the end, the film is more about relationships. The middle aged woman and the young man, who seemingly have nothing in common, go through typical roommate antagonism (a TV schedule, arguments about who picks up what), then they move into a more sympathetic relationship, offering each other comfort and support, next they become dependent on one another, and in the end they truly love each other. Not horrorific, I'll be honest while I was watching this film I was thinking "It's a horror film fest. I am not supposed to be on the verge of tears." However, horror or not, it's an overwhelmingly good short. The attention to detail (the exponentially increasing coffee stains) and the sense of humor in the writing were well served by the acting talent of Nicola Hersh who gives an outstanding performance as a middle aged woman attempting to follow the life of her son even after her own death.


Of course, the idea of the dead watching us is a classic bit of wish fulfillment for those of us who have lost people close to us. The idea that once our friends are no longer alive, we would continue to be utterly fascinating is a favorite fantasy. As Silo comments in the Sirens of Titan-humans always act like someone is watching even when they are alone.


Of course, the film could be taken in a more allegorical way. There is the frightening void outside of Apartment 206, which in the world of the film is the Great Beyond, but really could stand for any unknown future. The two characters are trapped by their past, which is dead. The film could be interpreted as being about letting go of the past and the deadening influence of TV and the illusion TV gives viewers (that they are actually doing something of import when they are simply passively watching action unfold). According the the Apologia, Socrates claimed there was no reason to fear death simply because it was unknown. This film seems based on that premise.


Interestingly enough Zymet was an NYU student. Given the strength of the writing in Apartment 206, I'm sure he would do well in my class. Although I might have trouble going to sleep after grading his papers.