Post-Halloween: THE RATS IN THE WALLS

I imagine it comes as a surprise to exactly no one that I did not finish my Halloween blog project in time for Halloween. I feel comforted knowing I've created a space in which standards for my behavior are low enough that this does not disappoint you. Nonetheless, I do offer a sort-of sincere apology to anyone waiting in bated breath for my various analyses. Your breath has got to be awfully bated by now, and it can't be a comfortable feeling. Hopefully you can de-bate it soon (and perhaps even prove your point, har har!).

OK, so even though Halloween is over (and mostly as good as any other year except that I HAD MY FIRST EVER TRICK-OR-TREATERS AND MY GOODNESS THEY WERE SO CUTE), I did finally get around to reading one last selection from my Halloween reading list, mostly because the fellow behind last year's fiftytwoplays suggested it, and I suppose he knows some things about reading projects (also I did a play with him one time and we got to wear crazy makeup outdoors and have all kinds of fun and you don't just walk away from someone like that when they tell you to read something).

The story was THE RATS IN THE WALLS, by HP Lovecraft. And it. was. horrifying. In a way I'm a little glad I missed the actual night of Halloween with this one, because that night might've taken a very difficult turn. This story is short, tense, strange, and deeply, deeply upsetting. I decided to read the entire thing during my lunch break, since it’s only around 20 pages long. That was a bad idea. Seriously, do not try to read this (or at least finish it) while you are eating. I am merely glad I was not eating pork at the time (not that I ever do, as we’ve covered before).

Also, be advised that HP Lovecraft was a racist. I state this as a matter of well-documented fact, with tempered judgment based on time period, upbringing, and generally tempered judgment. It is helpful to know this about Lovecraft, you see, in preparation for a particularly offensively-named cat which you will come to know in the story (the cat is demonstrably brave and good, but still).

I can’t talk much about the story or my reaction to it without giving away the icky parts, but trust me that the ending is pretty shocking. The beginning is pretty standard horror fare – the last surviving member of a cursed line returns to rebuild the ancient family home, dismissing local superstitions about the terrible things that have happened there. These things include a massive horde of devouring rats which stampeded forth from the establishment shortly after the protagonist’s ancestor murdered his family and fled the place. Rats which destroyed and consumed all living things in their wake, including livestock and people. Rats which, our hapless Mr. Delapore swiftly discovers, may still live in the walls.

There. That’s how it starts. You will have to read it if you want to know how it ends (which I do recommend, but again, not while you’re eating).

Now, I would like to take a small moment to speak in defense of rats, here. Maybe stampeding in walls or lurking in horrible abysses they are not so great, but I have known several very excellent domesticated vermin. There was a white rat which the kids I babysat used to have, who got me out of a lot of babysitting work thanks to the amusement the kids found at just watching him run in and out of the sleeves of my sweater (those little feet are tickley!). And there was a very nice little white mouse, Trotsky, who I cared for during the two weeks before my friend fed him to her snake back in 2006ish. He was cute. I had a gerbil as a child who was extremely cute (unfortunately I had a cat at the time who found him less so). Honorable mention goes to the non-rodents I’ve owned who've been traditionally mistaken for rodents, most notably a series of pet rabbits and one incredibly awesome silver ferret named Willow, who loved ramen noodle packets and fell victim to liver cancer at far too young an age. I still miss that poor little guy.

None of those rodents (or near-rodents) ever ate a person. They were sweet, and fluffy, and cute, and generally fun to be around.

Of course, they also didn’t live in the walls or feast upon unspeakable creatures in unspeakable places.  So there's that.




This marks the official end of my Halloween project, by the way.  I may get to some of the films as I go along (The Penalty and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari are still sitting around waiting to be watched), but I guarantee nothing.  If you like recommendations for things to read, you can get in the theatrical mindset and browse the old posts at fiftytwoplays (I know it's hard to even remember 2009 these days but sometimes it's worth looking back).  Mark at least used to read things that weren't UNCONSCIONABLY DISTURBING, even.

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Halloween Reading: THE COLOUR OUT OF SPACE

THE COLOUR OUT OF SPACE is definitely the scariest story I've read in a while, though it has by far the least scary name.  I mean, The Colour Out of Space?  Gasp!  What colour could it be?  Aubergine?  Heliotrope??  Puce?!?!?

Well, when the bizarre meteorite falls on the Gardner farm, we discover that it is in fact a color not currently found on earth, so maybe it was Octarine.  If so, then thanks to the work of Sir Terence Pratchett we can now know quite a bit more about the place from when the meteorite came, and it is indeed a very different world from our own (it's much flatter, for one thing).

But the color itself (sorry, the colour itself) is not the scariest part of this story.  It's what the colour does - first spreading itself, then sucking out the life from everything around it - that gets pretty upsetting.  I won't give away the specifics, but I will say that this story is the kind of thing that Twilight Zone episodes want to become.  

I made the mistake of trying to read this story in pieces while on breaks from work.  This was a very, very, very bad idea.  Read this story in one or maybe two sittings, while in a darkened room with nothing to distract you.  This is the most accessible of the Lovecraft stories I've read so far, with characters you can grab on to and one consistent story to follow.  It also has the least antiquated, technical language and the most attempts at complete descriptions.  This is in part, I think, because the narrator is not a scientist or an antiquarian.  Rather, he is a land surveyor* who's just in town to help with a new reservoir they're putting in for the neighboring city of Arkham (That's right - Arkham, just like the asylum from Batman/the DC Universe.  Lovecraft is everywhere!).  And our narrator is relating the tale of a humble, stolid farmer.  Between the two, things stay about as grounded as they can under the circumstances.


There will still come moments when your imagination has to fill in the blanks, and frankly you might not be happy that it did.  Poor Ammi the farmer comes across some pretty disturbing stuff even before the dramatic climax, and you just have to go along with him.  Nonetheless, if you want to know more about scary, dreary, unearthly, non-fun colors, then you need to read this one.  Don't worry though, it's probably only real if you believe that it's real.


And even if it is, at least it isn't puce.




*much like the lead character in Kafka's The Castle, which I've incidentally been referencing with disturbing frequency in my off-blog life lately.  Hm.

Halloween Movie: THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA

Now, I know what you're thinking: there was a Phantom of the Opera before Andrew Lloyd Webber?? Well, to you I say yes, there was! There was first a novel written in 1909 by Gaston Leroux, in fact, which no one remembers or reads, and then like 16 years later there was this guy:

Now, if you've ever looked into classic horror in any aspect, chances are you've seen him before as he's included in basically any collage on the subject. This exposure may lessen the impact of the moment, halfway through the film or so, when the Phantom is suddenly unmasked. So imagine, please, being a young person back in 1925. You've just spent your hard-earned nickel (or however-much) on the rare opportunity to sit in a darkened theater and watch a "motion picture" on the big screen. Remember that you don't have a TV at home or any access to moving images other than what you occasionally get to see at the theater. You are not inundated with fantastic images dancing in and out of your home for several hours a day. You're just a kid in a theater, chewing on some peanuts (or whatever), and you're watching the story of the young opera singer and the haunted opera house and you're enjoying the new-fangled tinting technology on this film and then the young opera singer is in the Phantom's lair and she reaches up to remove that creepy mask and suddenly you see -

and OH MY GOODNESS HIS FACE IS FILLING THE SCREEN AND HE'S WALKING TOWARD YOU AND THERE ARE NO REAL SPECIAL EFFECTS SO YOU KNOW THAT THAT'S A FACE, THAT'S A REAL MAN'S REAL FACE AND HOW IS THIS HAPPENING AHHHHHHHH!!!

And I think you can imagine why this movie was pretty much one of the scariest things that had ever happened to anyone.

It's not totally un-scary today, either. You never quite get used to Lon Chaney's face in this one. His makeup job (which he did himself, by the way - that's pre-union vaudeville-trained acting for you) is as usual for him nothing short of awesome. We're talking wire-hooks-in-your-nose, excrutiating-pain-during-filming awesome, here. When you consider that this is the same face we just saw in THE UNKNOWN, it's pretty amazing. It is also, according to my sources, the closest film approximation to the novel's Phantom, who was never really intended to have a pretty side. The story is put together nicely, as well - the same basic storyline as most other versions of Phantom, though each version has a slightly different ending. This one has Raoul and the Mysterious Stranger saving Christine, while some hordes of angry villagers destroy the Phantom and throw him in the Seine.

Ah, angry villagers. Is there any menace you cannot conquer with the aid of a couple of torches and some serious mob mentality?

This film has a decidedly gothic feel as opposed to the sweeping grandeur of certain stage musicals. It's the sort of scary story people sit in parlours (spelled with a 'u', of course) and read on long, rainy autumn nights. There's also some great, moody cinematography and color-tinting on display, as well as a very early use of technicolor(!) for the opera and especially the Bal Masque sections. Being intermittent, the color really, really pops. It's beautiful stuff.

Norman Kerry also appears in this film, playing Young Lover vs Chaney's Demented Freak as he does again in THE UNKNOWN (and before that in THE HUNCHBACK OF NOTRE DAME). He is once again quite dashing, looking excellent in a suit and appearing as though he is, in fact, an excellent lover. In fact, I bet he looks like just the sort of person to come back in around 70 years to teach us once again about how frenchmen do love...

I'm just saying.

Anyway, obviously I've got to recommend this film. Especially if you are, like me, any kind of a silent film nerd. It is beautiful, and moody, and one of the most influential horror films ever. You can hardly talk about classic film horror without mentioning it. So I say, give it a watch.

And I guess if you wanted to be a great big musical theatre nerd and periodically break into song throughout, you could do that too. It is a silent film, after all.

Halloween Reading: CALL OF CTHULHU

My first real introduction to the horror-being Cthulhu came from a most excellent Nintendo DS game called Scribblenauts. Scribblenauts, for those not in the know, is a highly addictive puzzle game in which the player enters the name of an object - just about any object there is - and it appears on the screen, allowing one to complete tasks. There was a time earlier this year when the game was basically with me all of the time, just begging to be screwed around with. I used flamethrowers to get starites down from trees, conjured up witches to turn obstacles into frogs and eat them, and rode a lot of unicorns. I spent hours' worth of my downtime just searching for new objects to call down. So it was that one dark and sleepless night I scrolled down to the very bottom of a particular shoreline level. And there, deep, deep down, under the layers and levels of the ocean, I gazed upon the horrible visage of...

CTHULHU!!!

There he is, folks. Sickly green, octopus-headed, vestigial-winged, capable of infecting the dreams of the sensitive and inflicting paralyzing, possibly life-ending fear on all who dare gaze upon him!

Also very useful for eliminating megalodons, dragons, and various bothersome beasts keeping you from getting to your starite.

Anyway, after making use of Cthulhu for my own nefarious ends for a while, I decided to google him. It was this search that led me once more to the works of HP Lovecraft and inspired a cursory investigation into Lovecraft's "Cthulhu Mythos." I had encountered Lovecraft once before while looking for new graphic adventure games to play (it's becoming abundantly clear, I believe, exactly which sort of geek I really am), but had eschewed the various Lovecraftian games in favor of the excellent Gabriel Knight series and then forgotten to look back. Now here Lovecraft was again. And then I joined Twitter, immediately started following Neil Gaiman, and thereby discovered that he is a Lovecraft fan. And eventually, this all coalesced into me sitting in my room last night and reading THE CALL OF CTHULHU.

OK, so that's a little more like the Cthulhu you meet in Lovecraft's story. He's much bigger than his Scribblenauts counterpart ("A mountain walked or stumbled," the narrator says of his appearance) and probably a lot scarier. I think his wings actually work, too.

THE CALL OF CTHULHU is short, to the point, and dripping with horrified fascination. It makes an extremely effective introduction to the character of Cthulhu, whom I would guess figures prominently in Lovecraft's other "Cthulhu Mythos" stories. It's basically the account of a young man whose investigation unearths a horrible, human-sacrificing Cult of Cthulhu lurking in the forgotten corners of every part of the world. This cult worships an ancient, world-destroying being who sleeps beneath the ocean (OMG JUST LIKE IN SCRIBBLENAUTS), manipulating the dreams of the sensitive and waiting for his cult to come unleash him upon the world. Since the "sensitive" includes almost exclusively artists and poets, naturally no one believes that Cthulhu is real. But our intrepid protagonist (I don't believe he was ever named, unless I missed it) soon uncovers a first-hand account, proof that the terrible Cthulhu has walked upon the earth and waits to walk again.

Now, since monster-based horror is pretty much dime-a-dozen at this point, let me point out what sets Lovecraft apart. It's not just that Cthulhu is a gigantic, bloodthirsty monster, you see. He is an actual living nightmare. The real horror of Cthulhu is rooted in his strangeness, in the sheer awfulness of a rational brain confronting the irrational. Cthulhu's city, R'lyeh, is consistently described as "non-Euclidean," with a geometry that is "all wrong." This bears out in the described encounter with the place. The sailors exploring the recently unearthed island try to open a door that may or may not be horizontal, which they either climbed on top of or simply stood upon. As they run away, one man trips over an angle which "shouldn't have been there; an angle which was acute, but behaved as if it were obtuse." This is not a nice, clean, geometrically-sound alien world like you find in Star Trek. This is the sort of sticky, slimy, incomprehensible hellscape you find yourself hopelessly trapped in during a fever dream.

It's no real wonder that there's never been a successful visual adaptation of THE CALL OF CTHULHU, though there have been several attempts at movies and video games and the like. R'lyeh and Cthulhu are meant to be so alien that a human mind can't even comprehend them, much less create them. A character-based investigative tale set away from R'lyeh itself would probably play better (even an original spin-off like the Interactive Fiction game Anchorhead, which I also played through this weekend). But if you really want a good look into the horror of Cthulhu and his city at R'lyeh, then you should just go ahead and read this one.

Beware the Cthulhu Cult, though! I thought they probably weren't real based solely on the unpronounceability of their chant, but then I came across one of these while driving home on Friday:

They are among us, I tell you! And their merchandise is available online!

PS: Now that you know about Neil Gaiman and Cthulhu, you should probably read Gaiman's delightful short story, I Cthulhu, which is available for free on his website.

PPS: I don't know who created the second Cthulhu image I posted above. If you know who the artist is, please please tell me so I can give credit where it is so evidently due.

PPPS: Super Scribblenauts, featuring the ability to add adjectives to objects, is available now! Buy it for me today!

Blog Note, plus bonus video!

OK, so the Halloween template lasted less than a week. Seriously guys, I just could not handle that eyesore anymore. I was going for immersion therapy, but I think I over-immersed. So I've switched it to one of the Blogger-provided templates instead, and just made it look all overcast and moody. That's sort of Halloweenish, right?

Anyway, as an addendum/companion to my post about AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS, here's an informative video about Antarctic exploration:




Next up for Halloween: THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA (1925 film) and THE CALL OF CTHULHU (1928 story).

Halloween Reading: AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS

"Comment allez-vous ce soir? Je suis comme ci comme ça.

Yes, a penguin taught me French back in Antarctica."
- The Weakerthans, Our Retired Explorer (Dines with Michel Foucault in Paris, 1961)

AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS, my first reading experience with HP Lovecraft, got off to an admittedly rocky start (no pun intended, though it would be a pretty good one since the main character is a geologist). This is Sci-Fi Horror, heavy on the Sci-Fi, even heavier on the Sci. The story is written from the perspective of a professor of geology chronicling an expedition to Antarctica gone horribly, horribly wrong, who is telling his story solely to dissuade other scientists from repeating his expedition. As he is meant to be a scholarly fellow writing to other scholarly fellows, who only divulges salacious details because he must, there's a lot of fairly technical information included in the first 2/3 of this novella. This means of course that I, having failed the same 100-level Physical Science class at least twice in college thanks to lack of interest and/or attendance, found the beginning part a bit...laborious. And you know I don't find many things difficult to read - I'm a fan of Kafka, for heaven's sake. Now, this is not to say that it's a bad novella. It gets really, really good and quite fascinating as it goes along. It just takes a bit of time to match the story's tempo, to become accustomed enough to the narrator's dry tone to start noticing the undercurrent of horror that he's keeping carefully suppressed. And once you've got that, you're in. So while in the end I found myself staring at the page in ever-eye-widening breathlessness, even going so far as to put a hand to my mouth when the really scary part came along, I probably would've gotten to that absorbing state of mind more quickly had I had a few basic references under my belt. Therefore, in order to help future readers, I provide a handy list of

REFERENCES IT'S NICE TO HAVE BEFORE READING THIS STORY:

A basic understanding of different pre-historic ages.
The terrifying things that this professor and his friends discover in Antarctica are very, very old. How old I'm not entirely sure, because I don't know when the Pleistocene, Comanchian, and Pre-Cambrian ages were, or if they're all the same thing. I know some of them were pre-dinosaur, but were they also pre-troglodyte? Who can say?

The work of Nicholas Roerich.
The narrator references Roerich frequently in describing the titular Mountains of Madness. Now, Lovecraft references a lot of "sources" who are not real people (more on that later), so it took me a while to bother googling Roerich's work. I regret that fact, as it would've been very nice to have had these images to call to mind when Lovecraft evokes them. Bad Julie. Never ignore an artist. You always end up paying for it when you do.

Cyclopean Masonry
The ancient buildings found beyond the mountains of madness (is that a spoiler? I mean, it happens like halfway through) are continuously described as "Cyclopean." I had to look up the Wikipedia entry on Cyclopean Masonry about five times before I could keep a picture in my head that corresponded with the word appropriately. Basically it's an ancient method of building walls from rough, stacked stones which need not be of any regular or uniform shape.

A variety of architectural terms.
Most importantly, you need to know what an arabesque and a cartouche are, but it's good to also find out about basic architectural and sculptural concepts and geometry. It will help you, trust me.

Seriously, buy a dictionary or keep a good online dictionary handy. He will throw out technical terms such as you've never imagined.

Don't worry if you don't know some of the references, because they aren't all real.
That's right, many of Lovecraft's references are fictional. He makes frequent mention of the Necronomicon, an ancient book containing extensive arcane and occult knowledge, which was written by the "Mad Arab," Abdul Alhazred. He also references things found in the Necronomicon, such as a region called Leng. None of these things are real (OR ARE THEY??????), so while you can look up lots of interesting information about how they're used in stories, you won't find the real book anywhere (OR WILL YOU??????). There is said to have been one copy of the Necronomicon at the fictional Miskatonic University from whence our hapless explorers come, but even it was kept under lock and key, and only one of the characters ever dared read through all of it, and this knowledge did not cause him to fare well. So it's probably good for us all that it doesn't actually exist (OR DOES IT??????).

Similarly, Lovecraft's narrator frequently alludes to information or materials he assumes that the reader has available, such as radio transmittals sent out during the original expedition and attached photographs. This nicely allows him to sidestep the inexplicable and create an even deeper sense of mystery. It has the added effect, as well, of leaving the reader feeling out of the loop on very important information, forcing our overactive imaginations to fill in the blanks based mostly on vague, creeping suspicion and feeling. It's simultaneously frustrating and frightening.

THE BOTTOM LINE

If you like claustrophobic narratives with a heavy dose of ever-deepening dread (and I do), then AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS is definitely worth the effort. This story includes some truly disturbing and horrifying elements, and a lot of sick fascination throughout. Lovecraft really creates (OR DOES HE DISCOVER??????) a fully-realized world and culture with an expansive back story, and it's worth immersing yourself in it even if it kind of repulses you and creeps you out. Especially if it kind of repulses you and creeps you out.

There are even penguins. Huge, horrible penguins. That's got to count for something.

There's been some talk of Guillermo Del Toro - of Pan's Labyrinth and the Hellboy movies, among others - tackling a Mountains of Madness movie. That I would definitely love to see. In the meantime, I've got the book, a darkened room, and my overactive imagination. Yikes.

"Say, do you have a ship and a dozen able men that maybe you could lend me? Oh, Antarctica..."
- The Weakerthans, Our Retired Explorer (Dines with Michel Foucault in Paris, 1961)

Halloween Movies: THE UNKNOWN

So it's my first official night of 20's Horror Halloween, and I decided to start strong.


Now, I'm not completely sure why this movie is called THE UNKNOWN. It should probably be called THE ARMS - or, more accurately, A FAREWELL TO ARMS (though of course then I don't know what Hemingway would've done). This thing is all about arms - specifically, who has them, who doesn't have them, who appears not to have them but in fact does have them, and who is afraid of them.

The film takes place in a gypsy circus, where Lon Chaney plays Alonzo, an apparently armless knife-thrower. He's desperately, deeply in love with Joan Crawford's character, Nanon, who is acutely afraid of men's arms and hands because of the pain and abuse they've brought her. She, in turn, is being pursued romantically by Malabar, who uses his muscular arms to perform various feats of strength (so the relationship is not going so well, naturally). Oh, and then there's Alonzo's vaguely creepy, little person assistant, Cojo.


Now, we learn pretty quickly that Alonzo doesn't actually have no arms. In fact, he has two arms, three thumbs, and a very criminal past. The main reason Nanon trusts and feels safe with him, however, is because she thinks he has no arms. It's pretty much the basis of their entire relationship. So he can't tell her the truth. Oh, and she saw his double-thumb (but not his face) when he killed her father. So he really can't tell her the truth. What is a lovesick degenerate to do?

What follows, of course, is one of the all-time great examples of dramatic irony. And some seriously dark and demented decision-making, of course.

[SPOILER SECTION]
Alonzo does what he considers the reasonable thing: he abruptly leaves and blackmails a doctor into amputating both his arms. There are no word-titles telling you that's specifically what he's after, by the way - the awful realization just sort of dawns on you over time. Now, in a way this a great sacrifice for the woman he loves. In going, however, he commits one of the cardinal sins of love stories: he leaves before he tells the woman he loves her. This is something that almost never works out in movies. Leave just after declaring your love, and you can usually pull of an 'enduring long-distance love' situation. Leave without doing so, however, and it's anybody's game. In this case, the very day that Alonzo leaves, Malabar discovers Nanon mooning over some flowers that he gave her. He's confused by her mixed signals, goes to hold her, and finally realizes why she keeps recoiling. Unlike Alonzo, however, he is somewhat grounded in reality (and he's never killed any of her family members), so he decides to just spend quality time with her, keep his hands away from her, and wait for her to overcome her fear. It's actually very sweet and romantic. And it works. Alonzo returns to find himself on one half of a pretty awful Gift of the Magi. He's given up his arms only to find that Nanon no longer fears them - and that she and Malabar are ready to get married. Lon Chaney gives exactly the reaction one might expect: hysterical laugh-crying. It's actually gorgeous. Then he decides to exact his revenge in a climactic scene I shall not reveal. I will say that horses on treadmills are involved.
[END SPOILER SECTION]

This movie isn't a traditional horror story of the "fill it with zombies and set it on fire" variety. It's more of an extremely dark, tragic love story (just the way I like 'em!). There's a particularly well-functioning love triangle in play here - Alonzo loves Nanon, Malabar loves Nanon, Nanon's attracted to Malabar but repulsed by his arms, Nanon clearly cares for Alonzo but the relationship is unclear. Everybody has compelling, conflicting reasons to be together that are initially overridden by the things keeping them apart. Classic love story. Still, plenty of appropriate Halloween elements are there - the circus (territory director Tod Browning explores again in the more-famous and oft-banned FREAKS); amputations; murder; medieval punishment methods; attempted murder; wild, uncontrollable laughter. What more do you need, really?

Plus it's a great time to watch, of course. I'm a long-time and openly-acknowledged fan of Lon Chaney, and he gives one of his best and most heartfelt performances here. And of course you have to see Joan Crawford. I have to confess this was the first time I'd actually seen her on film. Famous aversion to wire hangers aside, she's entrancing and visceral and ravishing and believable in a way that's definitely ahead of her time. Norman Kerry's Malabar is unexpectedly nuanced and lovable when he could so easily have been as flat and boring as the "love-interest-by-default" usually is, even today. Even Cojo is emotional and interesting. These actors take a group of "types" and turn them into honestly engaging people. It's fascinating work.

What really sets this movie apart, though, is the foot acting. Chaney has an actually-armless body double for the film, Paul Desmuke, who I believe plays the feet. And he plays them splendidly! Alonzo smokes with his feet, gestures with his feet, throws knives, shoots off a girl's dress (for his circus act), even drums his toes together evilly. Never knew your feet could express nuance and pathos? Well, see THE UNKNOWN, and realize just how much untapped potential you've been ignoring.


So, what have I learned? First of all, scary-creepy is best when it comes with a scary-creepy story. Second, arms are...good? Bad? Overrated? More dramatically interesting than I used to think, anyway.

Type of Scary: Twisted.
Recommended for: Anyone with a foot fetish.
Not recommended for: Apotemnophobics.

I gasped, sighed, smiled, gritted my teeth, and did a lot of horrified staring with my mouth hanging open. Oh, horror/romance. Why isn't there more of you out there these days?

HA HA YOU!!! Also, Halloween.

So remember before, when I said I was going to post regularly from then on, and it would be like maybe a week before I got things in order? Well HA HA HA HA HA!! That didn't happen. Instead my car got broken into and my purse stolen, and the purse for some reason had EVERY FORM OF IDENTIFICATION I OWN inside it, so then I got to go home for a while since I was between employment anyway, and then there were kids to play with and ID's to track down (each of which had to be mailed before the next could be requested and mailed), and then I started a new job, and now I'm back. To my blog. And to California.

Now, I know this has been a difficult time for all of you, waiting in daily, ever-maddening anticipation for the day when I would once again blog. For that, of course, I apologize. But worry not! I have allll kinds of things to talk about, like...

HALLOWEEN.

Now honestly, I haven't been a big fan of Halloween in the past. Somewhere around the end of junior high school I became disenchanted with wearing costumes outside of a performance situation. I don't particularly enjoy gory horror films, and I tend to find haunted houses kind of embarrassing (for me...the houses themselves vary in quality). So ever since I freed myself of the Thanksgiving Restriction and therefore allowed the Christmas Season to extend into November, Halloween has just been the holiday I have to wait through before I get out my Christmas music (and a good excuse to watch Nightmare Before Christmas in order to signify the change). Last year I pretty much got out of the holiday altogether, thanks to a septo-rhinoplasty undergone just three days before Halloween. I was quite proud of that at the time. Major nose surgery comes with a particularly gross healing process, though, and I don't know that I want to go through it again just to get out of some costume events. Besides, this year the Berkeley Institute of Religion is hosting a GINORMOUS haunted house/Halloween dance, and many people I know are involved, which means I'll feel bad if I'm not there. And I guess that means I might as well enjoy it, right?

• Sidebar: is it weird for an Institute of Religion to host a Halloween celebration? Discuss.

So this year I've decided to make an effort. To that end, I've selected a theme. From now until the end of October, I'm indulging in 1920's HORROR, with an emphasis on the works of Lon Chaney (film) and H.P. Lovecraft (literature). Basically I'm going to watch some silent films and read some great sci-fi horror stories and then post reactions, analyses, or other content about them here. I'll display the current list of films and stories in the upper right-hand panel on this page, for anyone playing along at home. Trust me, you won't regret it if you do. The Lovecraft stories are all available through Project Gutenberg (click the links in the list), though I always recommend having a physical book to hold, preferably in the dark. Many of the films are available instantly via Netflix. You can also check your local library.

Now, I should state upfront that my content choosing rules aren't 100% strict. For example, not all of the films feature Lon Chaney. And I don't think all of the Lovecraft stories I've chosen were actually written in the 20's. Nonetheless, it's close enough. Listen, the point is that they knew how to craft some great, often intense stuff back in the early 20th century - and most of it was a lot of fun! Watch this space in the coming weeks (if you follow me on Twitter or Facebook then you won't have to, because I'll post the links as they come up).

Listen guys, I'm very excited about this Halloween project. This is my first experience with many of these films, despite being a huge fan of Chaney's work in general, and it's definitely the first time I've read any of Lovecraft's work. I'm anticipating a lot of vaguely creepy fun in the near future.

First up: THE UNKNOWN (film) and AT THE MOUNTAINS OF MADNESS (novella). Which I post about first will largely depend upon the folks at Netflix.

---

BONUS CLIP! Because one thing I have always secretly liked about Halloween is novelty music (and one thing I openly love about life is watching 30 Rock):



Hey look guys - new layout! I'm getting the Halloween spirit already! Let me know if it's impossible to read or otherwise annoying, and I'll happily change it.

Blog Reboot Coming. Also, Bad News re: CM Ladies.

I only have two things to say right now.

First, I have officially decided to blog somewhat regularly, on predictable days. I will be retooling the blog into a thrice-weekly postfest centering mostly on TV, Film, Writing, occasional Geek Stuff, and Miscellaneous. These posts will go up on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Cheesy Movie Saturdays. More on all that to follow, with the new version hopefully debuting tomorrow night.

I am not starting a new blog, just sort of remaking this one and pushing it in a new direction while (mostly) ignoring vast parts of its history, kind of like what DC is doing with Wonder Woman (what did I tell you about Geek Stuff?).

And second, we pretty much lost the fight over AJ Cook and Paget Brewster staying on Criminal Minds. AJ's option was not picked up for the next season, though she will return in 2 episodes to wrap up her character. Paget is to appear in "10 of 13" episodes next season (as in, out of every 13 episodes filmed, Paget will be in 10 of them). There are broad hints that next season will be her last.

For the cast's reaction to this news, see their Twitter pages. For Hitler's reaction, see this video. (Warning: swear words. Also, the views of Hitler are not necessarily the views of this site. Especially the views of the real Hitler).

Save the Ladies of Criminal Minds: AJ Cook and Paget Brewster to be cut from Criminal Minds

So word reached me earlier today that Criminal Minds is planning to cut its female cast. They plan to cut AJ Cook's character Jennifer "JJ" Jareau and drastically reduce Paget Brewster's role as Emily Prentiss. In return, they will add a new female cast member. Because, you know, one woman on a crime show is just as good as another, even if the existing women have been on the show for years and have fanbases all their own. CBS is claiming that the cut is happening due to "creative" reasons rather than financial ones. To that, I have a few responses:

1. If your creative team cannot effectively come up with interesting storylines for two female FBI field agents, then that's a story failing, not an actor problem. (I seriously doubt that this is the case, by the way, as the CriMi writers are uniformly awesome.)
   
2. CBS is planning a big Criminal Minds spin-off for next season, featuring an Oscar-winner in the lead. I don't think any of us are dumb enough to think that that won't be extremely expensive.
3. If you're looking to make cuts, cutting characters from a show with an active, emotionally invested fan base is a really dumb way to go about it.
   

Criminal Minds is one of the only crime shows on TV with strong, interesting female characters. It's worth noting that JJ and Prentiss are two of a very small number of female crime show leads who have never been kidnapped, tortured, raped, or been otherwise victimized at any point since they joined the show. I think that counts for something. Aside from that, JJ and Prentiss are interesting, well-rounded, yet consistently competent and strong. They're worth keeping.

So I ask you to please get involved in the campaign to save them. Here's what you can do:

• Sign the online petition to save AJ Cook and Paget Brewster's Criminal Minds characters
• Check out the Save the CM Ladies Blog. Much of what I'm listing is basically a rephrasing of their "How to Help" section for people who don't feel like clicking the link.
• Contact CBS via their feedback form.
• Email these people: cender@cbs.com, phil.gonzales@cbs.com, sue.lamphear@cbs.com, tiffany.smith@cbs.com
• Print and send one of the postcards that have been created for this purpose. Here's one. Here's the one I'm sending. Right click on the image and select "view image," then print.
  
• If you're phone-minded, call Nina Tessler at 818-655-1400. I'm told you may have to insist on leaving her a message, or the secretary will try to transfer you to another department.
  
• Join Twitter, then follow the movement at #SaveTheCMLadies. You can also follow SaveTheCMLadies for continuing updates.
• Now that you're on Twitter, join in! Flash tweet TONIGHT at 6pm PST / 9pm EST. Add the #SaveTheCMLadies tag to your posts during Criminal Minds' TV time slot. You can also add #WeSupportAJandPaget.
  

Fan movements are the best movements, people! Please get to work for our Criminal Minds Ladies, AJ and Paget! I'll try to post updates as they come to me on this issue. If you know anything before I do, go ahead and comment here, contact me on Twitter, or email me (ohmissjulie at gmail dot com). Now get moving!

My Eporkphany

I wonder how so many can be in so much pain,

While others don't seem to feel a thing.
And then I curse my whiteness and I get so damn depressed.
In this world of suffering, why should I be so blessed?
- Brett Dennen, "There is So Much More"

The other day I was driving to work, as I tend to do on days when I'm scheduled to work, and as I was stopped at a red light a very peculiar sort of truck pulled up alongside me. It was large and a bit dirty from driving on dirt roads, and it had a long, metal trailer on its back with little holes all along the sides. Now, I grew up in a rural area, so I've actually seen these trucks a million times. But this time I saw something I don't know if I've ever noticed before. It looked a bit like this:


Pigs. Or, more specifically, pig noses. Pig noses, sniffing the air, wondering what was out there, trying to experience the outside world. Pig noses, attached to pigs faces with pig eyes, trying to see something that wasn't a tiny pen in some dimly lit barn. And they looked at me, and I knew with heartbreaking certainty that this pitiful trip in a truck, packed in end to end and shoulder to shoulder, three stories high, would be the only exposure to the outside world that these pigs would ever have. They were so obviously interested in the sky and the trees and the cars and even in me, staring back at them from my own car, but they were going to die before they ever found out anything more about those things.

I don't know what it is, but lately I can't get that moment out of my head. I went to Jack-in-the-Box today and I just couldn't stop thinking about how these sweet, incredibly intelligent animals (they regularly outperform every other domesticated animal in intelligence tests - including dogs - and even do better than primates and three-year-old children at some learning experiments) were living horrible, short, limited lives because I wanted bacon on my hamburger. Literally, I looked at the hamburger, and I saw the noses. I saw the pigs.

It happens all the time, you know. They live in tiny little pens, and they eat, and they breed, and they give birth, and they glimpse out at the world from tiny holes in the side of a truck, and then they die. And they do it because of me.

They do it because of a lot of other people too, of course. But if I'm going to object to cruelty to animals I like, like dogs and cats and horses, then there's no reason for me to participate in this particular cruelty. I don't know exactly what I'm going to wind up consuming or not consuming or in what situations, but I think I'm headed down a path now.

And like so many things in life, it all started with a nose.

Fight over.

I defer to the awesomeness that is part 10 of Matthew Gray Gubler: The Unauthorized Biography, which was actually a really really cool surprise, OK, I was just kidding earlier. Watch the opening montage and check his dance moves and you'll see why we're still together. The rest, of course, is just the price of long-distance sort-of-but-not-really dating a star. I'm sure he feels the same way about me.

So, OK, I might still consider becoming the Gubestress. He should know, though, that he's got some competition:

Why I'm Mad at Matthew Gray Gubler

Alright, so a few days ago I posted about my torrid on-again off-again relationship with Matthew Gray Gubler, also known as Dr. Spencer Reid from the hit TV show Criminal Minds. Well, shortly after I made that post, Gubler began hinting, via Twitter, that a "humongous surprise" was coming to placate grief-stricken fans of the show (predictably, I was not mentioned by name). Here, I'll quote them:

First, on Thanksgiving, of all days:

Perhaps a humongous surprise coming today.
8:46 AM Nov 26th from Tweetie

This so-called surprise was subsequently delayed until Black Friday, when he said:

Ahhhhhhhhh meltdown! Super secret suprise delayed until Monday. Sorry
about 15 hours ago from Tweetie

Until finally, one hour later:

Fistfight with technology. What I am trying to accomplish won't be physically possible until 2010 I am told. Sorry, surprise cancelled
about 14 hours ago from Tweetie

So yeah. First the Gube refuses to call me on one of our most important national holidays. Then he promises a surprise and takes it away!

I don't know, you guys, this might be the end for us. I never thought it would be this way. I always imagined that he would be the Gubler, and I would be his Gublette. Or that he would become the Gubester, and I would be his Gubestress. But lately that dream is starting to crumble. I may even have to rethink my dual citizenship with Gublerland. I'll keep you posted, as always.

At least Andy Swan, Matthew's nemesis, has posted part 10 in his masterful (if spite-filled) Matthew Gray Gubler: The Unauthorized Documentary. And lucky for you lot, I am just angry enough to link to it: Click here to watch! Enjoy.

Matthew Gray Gubler is my boyfriend. And Thomas Gibson is my INSPIRATION.

Feel free to spread both of those rumors.

So, OK, yes, I know that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. But the thing is, my family already celebrated Thanksgiving like two weeks ago, so I don't really care what "mainstream America" is doing tomorrow (though I am grateful for the day off work, even though I feel kind of ironic saying that since I genuinely believed I was fired until Monday afternoon and it was a sad time for me). So instead of writing some "things I'm grateful for" post, I'm just going to talk about TV and stuff. It's more true to my character, anyway.

So as of the last few months, I am completely obsessed with this show Criminal Minds. Tonight was the 100th episode. I cried and cried and cried. I would still be extraordinarily depressed had I not discovered the following two things:

1) Matthew Gray Gubler's Twitter feed

2) Gublerland

Gublerland, in particular, is pretty freaking cool. I'm even considering immigrating, though I can't decide if I want to choose a passport picture (and if so, if I want to be Benjimum, B-day Face, Zippy from France, or Doogan Gooseberry) or just draw my own. Though obviously we all know that I will decide to draw my own, and then my passport will be flagged going through customs due to excessive awesome (didn't think you could get barred from a country for excessive awesome? Well, of course YOU didn't!) (ZING). Really though, you should check out the movies he's made (especially the music video for The Killers, which I just discovered). They're pretty great.

Other Gube stuff, while we're on the topic (DISCLAIMER: These are on something called "You-Tube," which might be essentially Evil. Click one, and you risk losing several hours of your life before you really know what happened. Plus they are both available on Gublerland anyway.):
Matthew Gray Gubler: The Unauthorized Biography. This is an excellent behind-the-scenes look at the real MGG. Or so I'm told. There are five parts, including one with James Van Der Beek that made Me in 7th Grade pretty happy.
And then The AUTHORIZED Biography. Featuring Anton Yelchin, whom you might know as Chekov that Russian guy, I don't really remember his name, from that Star Trek movie. You know, with the aliens? That one.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure that Matthew Gray Gubler is my boyfriend, or that if he isn't, he really really wants to be. I'm having a hard time getting him to commit, though. For example, he won't admit publicly that he's infatuated with me. I keep trying to figure out what the problem is. Maybe he's mad at me because I haven't seen 500 Days of Summer yet (IT IS IN MY NETFLIX CUE, I SWEAR), or maybe he's one of these people who likes to have met you and talked to you and become generally aware of your existence (consciously, I mean, not subliminally in love with me like everybody is) before taking that kind of a step. Psh, whatever.

Maybe if I watch the movie I'll understand. Netflix thinks I will give it a 4.9 (which is impossible since Netflix doesn't let you give partial stars to things, but that's a rant for another day).

Now, though, I have to talk about Thomas Gibson. And yes, I know I've been going on and on already. But you guys, Thomas Gibson is amazing. His work in the show tonight was unsurpassable (or insurmountable, whichever of those is a real word). I am not joking about this. Hotch is easily one of the most compelling, interesting characters on TV right now, and that is all Thomas Gibson. There's a team of people writing him things to say and do every week - trust me, I recognize that - but you don't get that extra layer of magic without a truly magnificent actor in place. What a brilliant episode, too. I don't want to give everything away, but there was a section of near-silence during which I was literally inches from my TV screen. It was incredible.

(Note: there is a very loud movie geek in my head who is bugging me to rewatch The Third Man so I can see one of the original, great cut-the-music-to-build-suspense scenes. I am ignoring that person, for now.)

This show...if you don't watch this show, then you need to be watching this show. It can get straight-up horrifying at times, but that's all a part of the experience. Seriously, great writing, great acting, great direction...tonight's episode was, in a word, triumphant. And deeply, deeply sad. So, you know, great.

(Click to enlarge the photo. Also, Gublerland is officially on that link list over there ---->. You see that, Matthew Gray Gubler? That, right there, is called "publicly acknowledging someone else's existence." You should try is sometime. xoxo, ME.)

Sitting with Cats

“That’s what people do when tragedy strikes. They come over, and sit.” – Lars and the Real Girl

I’m sitting on my bed with my cat. Her name is Tiger. I named her that when I was five years old, and she was a kitten. She was born here, in the room right underneath the one I’m in now. Sometime today, or possibly tonight or tomorrow, she will die here.

Tiger is lying on her side, more or less the way my brother found her earlier this afternoon, except by now I’ve moved her into the quiet and relative dark of my bedroom. When we found her outside like this I sat with her while my mother wrapped her in a baby blanket. We brought her into the kitchen and laid her on an old couch cushion. When she mewed at me plaintively I took off my sweater/pajama robe and placed it on top of her blanket. After a while the light and noise of the kitchen seemed too much for her, so we retreated to my room. Now we’re sitting on my bed, a space heater trained on her and her two layers of blankets, and we’re waiting.

Every now and then she half wakes up and calls for me. I give her a dropper full of water and stroke her neck until she falls back asleep. She’s getting more peaceful all the time. And in a weird way, so am I.

I’ve had a lot of contact with tragedy this year, much of it oddly remote. 2009 more or less began with a short series of deaths I had to hear about by phone – a suicide, a removed breathing tube, my beloved dog’s sudden heart failure, and so on. When you aren’t near the incident and the world is spinning by so quickly it’s hard for any of it to settle in the way that it needs to. You hear about something, you sit on the floor for a moment, but before you know it you’re back to work or school or social commitments and it’s hard to believe that anything really happened. When you sit and think about it you might notice a dull ache somewhere in your chest, but it abates slower and ever slower until the day you can actually come home and notice the empty place in the kitchen, for example, or the strange absence of a sound you didn’t notice you’d been taking for granted for so very long. That’s when it’s real. That’s when you can hurt in the way that you really need to hurt.

This is the first time I can remember being near the tragedy while it happens. All my life someone or something has been in the way, helping me pretend that the world isn’t changing. Now, instead, I’m sitting in my room, and it’s quiet, and most of the time I’m just watching a dying cat breathe. I’m staying peaceful so that she can be peaceful, because 18 years is more than long enough for a cat and she deserves to go out so softly that she barely notices the transition. And I’m staying right here because no matter how much people like to say that you’re born alone and you die alone, I know that’s frankly not true. You were born with someone there to hold you, and that’s why you’re alive today. I really don’t see why we shouldn’t try to always live – and die – in more or less that same way.

So I’m sitting. And right now, sitting feels right.


Edit: Tiger died peacefully in her sleep at approximately 6:20 PM today. She will be missed, but only in the best of ways.

Four O'Clock

It’s 4:00 in the morning, and I am awake.

Let me clarify: it’s 4:00 in the morning, and I am still awake, sitting on my bed with my back against the wall, the dog who is my bedfellow having decided to commandeer my pillows while I was out of the room getting a past-midnight snack. I know I’m being a Great Big Pushover, letting her stay there while I take the less comfortable position, but at least she’s using the pillows for their intended purpose; namely, sleep.

I, on the other hand, am still awake.

I tried my usual things. I watched reruns of Frasier and Top Chef and Criminal Minds until the light and noise from the television set seemed terribly obnoxious. I soaked in a bubble bath until I was bored. I read some 70 pages of Running with Scissors, which is not a great choice when you’re already feeling a little insane. I also, Facebook informs me, played 20 games of Bejeweled Blitz in 30 minutes. But my spatial reasoning skills are slipping, and at 4:00 in the morning an inability to set the new high score feels like a serious personal failing, so eventually I had to quit playing the game and turn to less intellectual pursuits. Hence the aimless blogging.

I’ve always laughed at people who said things like “4 AM in the morning,” thinking they must not want me to confuse that with the 4 AM that comes in the afternoon. It’s like when people say, “I was thinking in my head,” which always makes me wonder if they normally think in their elbows. But I would like to state for emphasis that it is now past 4 AM. In the morning.

Perhaps I should read something a little more soothing, like that James Herriot book I have lying on my floor somewhere. Or some Kafka. It is almost Halloween, after all, which is a perfect time to reread The Metamorphosis. You should try it. Everyone you know will be reading Edgar Allen Poe (hey, that rhymes!), but Kafka’s got some chilling stuff too. Obviously it’s different – it’s more “your reality has inexplicably changed, so you’d better get used to it because you have no control over anything” and less “there are body parts hidden under the floor and I can still hear the beating of his horrible heart!” – but it is nonetheless appropriate for the season.

I have shifting dreams and unidentifiable needs and a life-size picture of John Kerry. I have slightly wet hair and an implacable cough and a head that’s all full of congestion. My right leg is asleep but the rest of me isn’t and it’s going on 4:33.

I’m having surgery next week so I can breathe properly through my nose and I hope by then to have clear sinuses. For the third time in my life, I’m afraid of the dark.

...

That’s enough writing for me. Good night, good day, or good morning, depending on how you believe.

Update: My Brain Broke

"Julie, why has it been so long since you last wrote something for your blog?" I'm sure you're wondering, all the time, relentlessly, as you compulsively check this site for updates. The greatest joy of your life has been on hold since June (when I posted something incredibly lame that was mostly pictures of designer clothing) and your summer has seemed comparatively dim and hopeless for the loss. You want answers. I understand. Thankfully, the answer is pretty simple: I just haven't been talking to anyone because I'm insane.

OK, not insane exactly. Crazy, maybe. I can't find a concrete definition for the term "nervous breakdown" - it's apparently not a real clinical condition of any kind - so I feel reasonably confident in applying it to myself. But I am now standing in the eye of my particular mental breakdown with a possible end imaginable, so I thought I'd take a moment to say hello. Hello! I've been learning all kinds of interesting things over the past few months. For example, I like having short hair. And The Weakerthans are AMAZING in concert. I've also learned many fascinating things about insomnia, panic attacks, PTSD-style flashbacks, prescription medications, crippling ennui, dog training, and how to cook dynamite pesto/eggplant/goat cheese pizza. I keep a journal sometimes now (no, you can't read it! Sheesh!), made up my own version of "Cat Heaven" for solo piano, tweaked my blog's sidebar (look to your right for evidence), and I have better mascara than I used to have. Then again, I also joined Twitter, so I can't legitimately say it's been a wholly productive time.

Tonight I am at home, mysteriously ill as I have been off-and-on for the past few days. The dogs are here with me, lying calmly on their various blankets. The crazy one is successfully ignoring my father's parakeets. My third or fourth consecutive rerun of NCIS is playing on the TV in the kitchen. I am sitting back in my leopard-print pajamas, enjoying a giant green Otter Pop. I guess this life is not that bad.

Picture above is from the fabulous Garfield Minus Garfield.

My Fashion Daydream

Today, I imagined that I was incredibly rich. I was going to some imaginary coastal area to shop and have imaginary cafe latte drinks with my rich friends, and I needed an outfit. So naturally, I went over to Bloomingdale's and picked up this adorable white eyelet dress from Marc by Marc Jacobs:

So cute, right? But since as in most of my dreams I had literally nothing to wear, I naturally had to buy all new jewelry and accessories. As I hurried barefoot out of the store, I stopped by jewelry and picked up a bracelet by Lauren Ralph Lauren and a faux pearl necklace from Majorica.


Dress and jewelry all safely in their "big brown bag", I rushed off to Saks to pick up the most glorious thing on feet, a brand new pair of Jimmy Choos.

And then, I mean, I have to carry my piles of imaginary cash in something, so I grabbed a matching Valentino bag, no big deal.

OK, not really "no big deal", because I love this bag. Like, I just - I need this bag. Sigh...

Since I was headed someplace coastal, I wanted to keep my makeup fresh and light. Maybe something skin-brightening from Smashbox, combined with a nice, peachy-pink glow from Nars. (PS: Do they have a blush called Orgasm Blush? Is there a good reason for that name? Yes, and Yes.) Simple hair - a low, messy ponytail if I imagined it was long. Imagining my own, very short hair, I kept it similarly messy and just shy of stick-straight. I looked fabulous.

And then I woke up. And I was in my real house. With my real bank account. My day was kind of depressing, is what I'm saying.

Note: all those images link back to their respective websites - follow along for more views and price tags and actual shopping ability and such. Go ahead and click so I don't feel badly about borrowing their images.

Commercials I Hate

I know I've got a lot to blog about, considering that over the past three weeks I've graduated from BYU, performed/hung out in New York, moved back to Oregon, and chopped off all my hair - again - this time in the style of the young boy protagonist from White Mane. That is all great blogging material. I understand this. However, I have also spent a lot of time watching TV in the past week or so, which has led to my taking in a lot of really annoying commercials. Quite frankly, something must be said.

Let's talk, for example, about Old Navy's "Supermodelquin" commercials. Firstly and foremostly, there is the fact that Old Navy seems completely confused about how FREAKING CREEPY mannequins are (1987's Mannequin notwithstanding). It's like they've never even heard the Uncanny Valley. Or, you know, considered how they might feel if all the mannequins that they were dressing, undressing, and literally posing and moving every day were to actually come to life and become capable of real thought and real emotions - emotions like hatred, for example, or sadness, or plain, simple bloodlust - but still somehow remain incapable of any kind of real action. These ad execs never gave a thought to the reality of those plastic creatures existing for years and years, their thoughts and feelings bottled up deep within their shiny, nearly-human exteriors where they fester and grow like some awful internal virus until the day comes when they can no longer tolerate the weight of their own awful repression and they finally find a way to exact revenge upon their unfeeling oppressors and puppet masters. So every couple of commercial breaks the poor, doomed executive minds of Old Navy return, telegraphing their own eventual downfall for all to see while we sit before our television sets, unable or unwilling to do anything to help...and this is somehow supposed to make me want to buy clothes?!?

That, and the commercials are generally unfunny, unclever, and annoying.

I have a similar complaint about the MultiGrain Cheerios commercial, except you have to multiply all my complaints by about a thousand because I straight-up HATE this commercial. It actually fills me with rage every time it comes on TV. Apparently this was originally a British commercial that they re-dubbed with American accents before photoshopping in a new box, which is a real shame because this commercial should never have existed in the first place. It's weird and unfunny - in fact, it's downright depressing. Look at the pale, bluish cast to the picture, leaving us with a world devoid of color or life. Then there's the constantly swinging camera, pulling in far too close to show us the grainy texture of our protagonists' sleepless skin, the hopeless look in their dull, lifeless eyes. If this were the "before" half of a commercial for some kind of prescription medication, it would all make sense. As it is, we are left with the grim vision of a couple on the precepice of divorce - or perhaps, given the way it's been inexplicably fast-forwarded in many TV versions, pure insanity. After weeks of late-night fights that have left them both exhausted and emotionally bereft, Steve and Wife come together over a breakfast of MultiGrain Cheerios. As his one last attempt at some kind of olive branch, Steve asks about the breakfast cereal. After all, he reasons, what more innocuous subject could there be than cold cereal? But his attempts at communication, as always in this relationship, fall flat at the feet of his cold, unfeeling, hopelessly insecure spouse. In the last moment, as Steve finally silences himself before she can do it for him, we peer into the hellish abyss left in the wake of this once-happy marriage and say to ourselves, "Hey, at least that cereal's low-calorie." In fact, it is the shining beacon of that oddly-photoshopped box that hovers over this entire situation, the only bright spot in an otherwise bleak wasteland of despair. It is bright, but offers no hope, creating conflict and then abandoning Steve to find his own way out. Notice that Steve doesn't even eat the blasted cereal in the end, his appetite abandoning him like every other source of joy in his life. The oft-referenced "box" remains, then, a distant and oddly malicious house deity; it is a fascinating but capricious specter that may help you manage your weight, but only by shrinking your heart. Yeah, I definitely want to go buy one of those right now.

All that, and it's generally unfunny, unclever, and annoying.

Look people, I know the ad business is hard. I've known my fair share of advertising students. I've watched that TV show with Eric McCormack and the guy who played JD's brother on Scrubs. This is tough stuff. But some commercials just shouldn't be on TV - even if they do make for really, really good blogging material sometimes.

More NCIS Blogging

I'm going to miss tonight's episode of NCIS because I'll be in the Nelke Theatre on campus, appearing in our first round of BFA Senior Showcase performances. There will be two monologues from me and a whole show full of goodness. It will be fabulous. I will watch NCIS online tomorrow morning. That promises to also be fabulous.

In the meantime I simply must post this video just in case anyone out there has any doubt that ZIVA IS AWESOME. It aired as a part of last week's episode, and I just can't get it out of my head. Be advised that there is a 15 second ad at the beginning because CBS likes things that way. The video itself lasts about 2 minutes.



This show rocks, you guys.