A shocking discovery regarding clowns. Not only are they creepy. That much is undeniable. But there's more.
Their spelling is atrocious.
It seems there's never a Spell-Check around when you need one.
Showing posts with label monsters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label monsters. Show all posts
Friday, 7 October 2011
the horror of poor spelling
I made a shocking discovery at Michaels last weekend.
A shocking discovery regarding clowns. Not only are they creepy. That much is undeniable. But there's more.
Their spelling is atrocious.
It seems there's never a Spell-Check around when you need one.
A shocking discovery regarding clowns. Not only are they creepy. That much is undeniable. But there's more.
Their spelling is atrocious.
It seems there's never a Spell-Check around when you need one.
Tuesday, 4 October 2011
The Vampire Bat
Setting aside my fear of vampires, I sat down this weekend to watch The Vampire Bat (1933). To be fair, I felt safe in choosing this film because the blurb on the DVD package referred to a string of murders supposedly committed by a vampire . . . until the real culprit is revealed. That told me all I needed to know. No real vampires would be present.
The film is set in the usual small German village that seems to be a haven for vampires, werewolves, and other assorted monsters. Several murders have been committed involving two puncture marks on the victims' necks and a complete loss of blood. Clearly, a sign that vampires are at work.
Naturally, the prime suspect is a mentally-challenged young man who lives in the village. And plays with bats. "They're soft . . ."
Before long, a torch-wielding mob is formed to deal with the problem. But still the murders continue. So it's up to the local detective, providing the voice of reason, and his scientist girlfriend to uncover the truth. Which turns out to be even more frightening than vampires.
Like so many films from this era, The Vampire Bat begins and ends abruptly. But otherwise, this is a solid B-movie. Despite the ability to spot the real villain early on. The scientist girlfriend did not faint or scream hysterically, which was a pleasant surprise. And it ended on a fun note.
It's heart-warming to see the surviving characters able to laugh and crack jokes within mere seconds of the villain's demise. Emotionally healthy, I think.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
Frankenstein
It had promised to be a dark and stormy night, but turned warm and humid instead. Nevertheless, I traveled downtown for Neptune Theatre's autumn offering of Frankenstein. The perfect way to welcome October.
As indicated, the play adhered more closely to the original novel than to any of the subsequent movie versions. Upon entering the theatre, I had noticed Mary Shelley's portrait among those of the show's "creative team". Always a good sign; I'm happy she chose to participate. The monster had no bolts protruding from his head and boasted quite an impressive vocabulary. There were, alas, no villagers carrying flaming torches. But there was thunder, lightning, and crackling electricity.
And while I enjoyed the play, I came away wondering if casting had been completed at the time that the promotional materials were printed. Because the actor portraying the monster bore little resemblance to the photograph on the the posters and the playbill. And not once during the play did he take his shirt off. He looked more like the older brother of the guy on the posters. Or perhaps a crazy uncle.
Just a thought. It didn't diminish my enjoyment of the evening. And I'll always have the playbill's cover image.
As indicated, the play adhered more closely to the original novel than to any of the subsequent movie versions. Upon entering the theatre, I had noticed Mary Shelley's portrait among those of the show's "creative team". Always a good sign; I'm happy she chose to participate. The monster had no bolts protruding from his head and boasted quite an impressive vocabulary. There were, alas, no villagers carrying flaming torches. But there was thunder, lightning, and crackling electricity.
And while I enjoyed the play, I came away wondering if casting had been completed at the time that the promotional materials were printed. Because the actor portraying the monster bore little resemblance to the photograph on the the posters and the playbill. And not once during the play did he take his shirt off. He looked more like the older brother of the guy on the posters. Or perhaps a crazy uncle.
Just a thought. It didn't diminish my enjoyment of the evening. And I'll always have the playbill's cover image.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
that's no baby
I would have to place these in the same category of creepiness as dolls and puppets.
Wal-Mart has taken a decidedly disturbing turn. Or maybe it's just me . . .
Wal-Mart has taken a decidedly disturbing turn. Or maybe it's just me . . .
Saturday, 17 September 2011
monster cookies
It was beginning again. Blog after blog after blog. Heralding the return of autumn and Halloween-themed foods to store shelves everywhere. Everywhere except here. Apparently, "out there", there exists a plethora of Halloween and pumpkin goodness at this time of year. Pop Tarts. Ice Cream. Flavoured Coffee. Cereals.
And here . . . ? Here I get to pass displays of Pillsbury slice-and-bake cookies in the grocery freezer section.
Until now.
Because this week, staring out at me from a store shelf was none other than . . . "Monsters" cookies. Box upon box upon box of Monsters cookies. With the all-important selling features of real cocoa and zero trans fat. No longer did I have to lament the absence of Halloween-inspired food products in my life. No longer did I have to eat vicariously through the posts and photographs of others, more fortunate than I. Now I, too, could partake in the goodness of seasonal treats.
I grabbed a box and took it home.
Yes, the cookies were dry. And bland. And barely recognizable as the monsters they represented. And I never would have suspected the inclusion of "real cocoa" had they not promised it on the box. But all of that is beside the point. What matters here is that my autumn dreams have finally been realized. As I kept reminding myself while I choked down a second and third monster cookie.
These may require an extra-large cup of pumpkin tea.
And here . . . ? Here I get to pass displays of Pillsbury slice-and-bake cookies in the grocery freezer section.
Until now.
Because this week, staring out at me from a store shelf was none other than . . . "Monsters" cookies. Box upon box upon box of Monsters cookies. With the all-important selling features of real cocoa and zero trans fat. No longer did I have to lament the absence of Halloween-inspired food products in my life. No longer did I have to eat vicariously through the posts and photographs of others, more fortunate than I. Now I, too, could partake in the goodness of seasonal treats.
I grabbed a box and took it home.
Yes, the cookies were dry. And bland. And barely recognizable as the monsters they represented. And I never would have suspected the inclusion of "real cocoa" had they not promised it on the box. But all of that is beside the point. What matters here is that my autumn dreams have finally been realized. As I kept reminding myself while I choked down a second and third monster cookie.
These may require an extra-large cup of pumpkin tea.
Sunday, 21 August 2011
the usual suspects
My three remaining pumpkin plants appear to have overcome the monster that threatened to devour them earlier in the season. The creature that consumed the majority of their comrades. That promised to eradicate every last pumpkin plant in my front yard. While it's still too early to tell if any pumpkins will survive, with such tough survivors around them, I remain cautiously optimistic. But I am disappointed that I was never able to positively identify the culprit.
I've had my suspicions.
At first, I thought it might have been the ubiquitous ants, which seem to crawl over every inch of the soil in my garden.
There is indeed "No menace like it". But while the ants are clearly in control of my yard, and while I can testify to the fact that killing one means that two take its place, they have not posed a problem to my garden plants in the past. No, a more likely suspect might be . . . the slugs. Having undoubtedly enjoyed my hostas, they may have been looking to add variety to their diet.
But while slugs are stealthy creatures, their numbers have been few this season. From outer space or not, they would have needed to pick up the pace to wreak the havoc that had been bestowed upon my young plants in the spring. The slugs were cleared.
Then, visiting my struggling pumpkin plants one day, I was startled by a grey fluttering amongst the leaves. Leading me to suspect . . . moths. Until now, they've been primarily concerned with destroying my front yard grass in a larval form (that's another story) but they may have moved on in search of new adventure.
Whether motivated by love or by the desire for pumpkin leaves and stems, the moths were a real possibility. My prime suspects. Until I was ambushed by . . . grasshoppers. Everywhere. Jumping with wild abandon throughout my front garden. But in particular, amongst the pumpkins . . . One was even resting comfortably within a pumpkin leaf.
Yes, it could have been the grasshoppers. In Horrorscope. The beginning of the end indeed for most of my plants. But I can only speculate about their guilt.
And I still have my suspicions about my neighbours' cats.
I've had my suspicions.
At first, I thought it might have been the ubiquitous ants, which seem to crawl over every inch of the soil in my garden.
There is indeed "No menace like it". But while the ants are clearly in control of my yard, and while I can testify to the fact that killing one means that two take its place, they have not posed a problem to my garden plants in the past. No, a more likely suspect might be . . . the slugs. Having undoubtedly enjoyed my hostas, they may have been looking to add variety to their diet.
But while slugs are stealthy creatures, their numbers have been few this season. From outer space or not, they would have needed to pick up the pace to wreak the havoc that had been bestowed upon my young plants in the spring. The slugs were cleared.
Then, visiting my struggling pumpkin plants one day, I was startled by a grey fluttering amongst the leaves. Leading me to suspect . . . moths. Until now, they've been primarily concerned with destroying my front yard grass in a larval form (that's another story) but they may have moved on in search of new adventure.
Whether motivated by love or by the desire for pumpkin leaves and stems, the moths were a real possibility. My prime suspects. Until I was ambushed by . . . grasshoppers. Everywhere. Jumping with wild abandon throughout my front garden. But in particular, amongst the pumpkins . . . One was even resting comfortably within a pumpkin leaf.
Yes, it could have been the grasshoppers. In Horrorscope. The beginning of the end indeed for most of my plants. But I can only speculate about their guilt.
And I still have my suspicions about my neighbours' cats.
Thursday, 28 July 2011
summer reading
I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I've never actually read the original text of Washington Irving's Legend of Sleepy Hollow. My knowledge of the story comes from its myriad of modern incarnations. Most prominently, Disney's classic cartoon.
But finally, I can put my shame to rest. Because on my recent vacation stop in Sleepy Hollow, I picked up a copy in a local museum gift shop. Along with a print and a Christmas ornament created by a local artist specifically for the museum. After all, nothing says "Merry Christmas" like a tin representation of a pumpkin-wielding headless horseman hanging on the tree.
The book is at the top of my reading list for the approaching long weekend.
Thursday, 21 July 2011
wax
Arriving in Times Square on the first day of my recent New York City trip, it was hard to miss the giant golden hand beckoning visitors to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. I had been to Madame Tussaud's in London many, many, many years ago and was curious to see how the New York version measured up. When I went inside and saw the price of admission, however, I decided I would be content to simply relive the memories of my London experience.
But my teenage children, who hadn't been alive during my trip to England, were eager to experience Madame Tussaud's wax collection. So I paid their admission, gave my daughter the camera, and instructed her, when taking photographs, to include anything that might interest me.
She knows me well.
But my teenage children, who hadn't been alive during my trip to England, were eager to experience Madame Tussaud's wax collection. So I paid their admission, gave my daughter the camera, and instructed her, when taking photographs, to include anything that might interest me.
She knows me well.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
headless
I have a deep-seated fear of feathered creatures. I wouldn't go so far as to call it a phobia. More of an intense aversion. The touch of feathers. The flapping of wings. The quick, arbitrary head movements. Creepy. I've long tried to isolate the origin of this aversion. And I believe I have found it.
I lived for the first thirteen years of my life on what had been a farm. In a sense, it still was. Barns were still standing. Although many of them were rapidly falling into disrepair. Empty shells of their former selves. The days of the property's existence as a real farm, however, were over. They had ended with the death of my grandfather, two years before I was born.
The last animals to go were the chickens. I can remember the chickens. I can remember the barn they called home and the nests on which they sat. And while I would like to recall wonderful early childhood memories of feeding chickens and collecting eggs, it would be far from the truth. Instead, the memories I have of our chickens are traumatic ones. It would have been horrific enough just to bear witness to the headless bodies of chickens being brought into our house to have their feathers plucked. (I shudder to think of what I ate for dinner those nights). But the horror didn't end there.
The barn in which they lived was behind our house. Past the garage and across a small field. Easily within sight of the house. Not far. As a small child, I walked past the barn often. Even wandered inside occasionally. I watched the chickens as they sat on their long narrow nests. Clucking softly. Alas, they were not always so calm. So settled. So non-threatening.
I might have been standing just outside the barn door that day. I might have been simply walking past. I don't recall. I only recall that, suddenly, the barn door flew open and a horde of chickens rushed out. Obviously delighted to be outside. Free. Unsure where to run first. And run they did. All around me. I was surrounded within seconds. And I was terrified. Everywhere I turned, the creatures were there. Moving awkwardly. Clucking noisily. Flapping their feathery wings. Pecking for food. Seemingly oblivious to my presence. I couldn't move without brushing against them. Without feeling their thick feathery bodies pressing against me. I could see no means of escape. Except to push through a sea of chickens.
I eventually got past the chickens. But I have never gotten past the trauma. The touch of birds' feathers. The sudden gawky movements of their heads. The sound of flapping wings. All of these profoundly disturb me. I have been able to repress my fear over the years. Through careful avoidance. And by ensuring that any chicken I encounter no longer bears any resemblance to the terrifying creatures of my childhood.
But when I saw this article on one of my new favourite websites, it all came flooding back. This is true horror. Mike. Mike is the face (or in his case, the headless body) of fear. I may not sleep for a week.
I lived for the first thirteen years of my life on what had been a farm. In a sense, it still was. Barns were still standing. Although many of them were rapidly falling into disrepair. Empty shells of their former selves. The days of the property's existence as a real farm, however, were over. They had ended with the death of my grandfather, two years before I was born.
The last animals to go were the chickens. I can remember the chickens. I can remember the barn they called home and the nests on which they sat. And while I would like to recall wonderful early childhood memories of feeding chickens and collecting eggs, it would be far from the truth. Instead, the memories I have of our chickens are traumatic ones. It would have been horrific enough just to bear witness to the headless bodies of chickens being brought into our house to have their feathers plucked. (I shudder to think of what I ate for dinner those nights). But the horror didn't end there.
The barn in which they lived was behind our house. Past the garage and across a small field. Easily within sight of the house. Not far. As a small child, I walked past the barn often. Even wandered inside occasionally. I watched the chickens as they sat on their long narrow nests. Clucking softly. Alas, they were not always so calm. So settled. So non-threatening.
I might have been standing just outside the barn door that day. I might have been simply walking past. I don't recall. I only recall that, suddenly, the barn door flew open and a horde of chickens rushed out. Obviously delighted to be outside. Free. Unsure where to run first. And run they did. All around me. I was surrounded within seconds. And I was terrified. Everywhere I turned, the creatures were there. Moving awkwardly. Clucking noisily. Flapping their feathery wings. Pecking for food. Seemingly oblivious to my presence. I couldn't move without brushing against them. Without feeling their thick feathery bodies pressing against me. I could see no means of escape. Except to push through a sea of chickens.
I eventually got past the chickens. But I have never gotten past the trauma. The touch of birds' feathers. The sudden gawky movements of their heads. The sound of flapping wings. All of these profoundly disturb me. I have been able to repress my fear over the years. Through careful avoidance. And by ensuring that any chicken I encounter no longer bears any resemblance to the terrifying creatures of my childhood.
But when I saw this article on one of my new favourite websites, it all came flooding back. This is true horror. Mike. Mike is the face (or in his case, the headless body) of fear. I may not sleep for a week.
Friday, 1 July 2011
Happy Canada Day
So early this morning, I went down to a park near my house for some free pancakes. Because there's no better way to begin Canada Day than with pancakes. Especially free pancakes.
And as I sat there in the sunshine, devouring their maple syrup-soaked goodness, I spotted something off in the distance.
A new attraction this year. Bright and shiny and colourful. It warmed my heart.
Nothing says "Happy Canada Day" like shrunken heads and werewolves.
And as I sat there in the sunshine, devouring their maple syrup-soaked goodness, I spotted something off in the distance.
A new attraction this year. Bright and shiny and colourful. It warmed my heart.
Nothing says "Happy Canada Day" like shrunken heads and werewolves.
Sunday, 26 June 2011
Dr. Franklin's brilliant idea
Still on the subject of the miserable summer weather (it's cloudy and drizzly yet again today), I got to thinking. Wouldn't it be nice to have one's own weather control device? Something to make the sun shine when you wished. The rain fall when you wished (preferably overnight). The crisp breezes of autumn arrive when you wished.
Much like the device invented by that OSI outcast of the 70's: Dr. Franklin. Of course, I would use my weather control device only for good. Never for evil. And I wouldn't build any Fembots.
Unless it was close to Halloween.
Much like the device invented by that OSI outcast of the 70's: Dr. Franklin. Of course, I would use my weather control device only for good. Never for evil. And I wouldn't build any Fembots.
Unless it was close to Halloween.
Saturday, 25 June 2011
horror of party beach
It has been an unusually cold and wet spring and early summer. Complaints about the miserable weather have been emanating from all directions. Farmers have had to delay planting many crops. Shorts-and-T-shirt days have been few. And with July just days away, the water is still too cold to even consider swimming.
But perhaps it's time to push aside the negativity and focus on the positive.
Perhaps it's a good thing that it's too cold for the beach.
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
return of the spiders
I've noticed that clusters of spider eggs around the outside of my house have begun hatching. Welcome back, my friends. Welcome back.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Sunday, 8 May 2011
FCBD
Another Free Comic Book Day has come and gone and a visit to the three comic book shops closest to home has provided me with enough four-colour reading material for the remainder of the weekend. However, my favourite find of the day was not free. Although it did come at a nice FCBD discount.
I was at the check-out counter of my last stop of the day: Monster Comic Lounge. When from a shelf behind the clerk, at the bottom of a pile of random books, something caught my eye. A large hardcover book with a photo of Archie on the spine. As a childhood fan of Archie comics and a current fan of vintage comics and comic book history, I had seen this book at another shop and had coveted it. So the decision was obvious. I quickly discarded the Marvel superhero origins book and chose Archie.
I was at the check-out counter of my last stop of the day: Monster Comic Lounge. When from a shelf behind the clerk, at the bottom of a pile of random books, something caught my eye. A large hardcover book with a photo of Archie on the spine. As a childhood fan of Archie comics and a current fan of vintage comics and comic book history, I had seen this book at another shop and had coveted it. So the decision was obvious. I quickly discarded the Marvel superhero origins book and chose Archie.
It was the right decision. I can now revel in Archie's history dating back to the character's first appearance in 1941. Including a countdown of the Top Ten classic monster covers.
The Creature looks quite comfortable in Veronica's pool.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
untrustworthy
I never played with dolls as a child. They always appeared so cold. So creepy. So . . . untrustworthy. With that waxy complexion. Those blank, staring eyes. Forever watching you as you sleep. And I see the people at LIFE agree with me.
Friday, 22 April 2011
Happy Easter
If only. . . *sigh*. Happy Easter anyway.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
midnight zombies
So it was last night when I fell asleep listening to a 1950 episode of Night Beat. The Kenny Day Amnesia Case. A soothing radio noir to lull me to sleep. I'm not sure what time it was when I awoke again. Earbuds still in place. Along with the words: " . . . he was a zombie. You know what zombies look like, don't you . . . ?"
I'll assume the character was speaking metaphorically. But I didn't wait to find out. I tore out the earbuds, flung them onto the floor, and pulled the covers up around my head.
Miraculously, I survived the night.
Saturday, 25 December 2010
Merry Christmas
Christmas Day gains a whole new meaning when it brings a giant Santa Claus marauding through your village. Makes me feel grateful I wasn't alive in 1958.
Merry Christmas to all.
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