Found on Robson Street. That’s either a Cthulhu whose wings have been plucked (Nodens, that fucker, without a doubt) or a portrait in site-appropriate rainforest marble of some random douchebro on Granville street at about 3am, puking his virgin guts out.
It’s time for a seriously cheesy, seriously un-serious movie starring one of the Great Old Ones of Hollywood: Lon Chaney Jr. He had a Freudianer, or at least Oedipalier time of it than most, as his father will be forever famous for his portrayals of various costumed monsters. Lon Jr started that way, too, as name recognition is quite useful when it comes to starting a career sometimes; he even changed his name from Creighton Tull Chaney to Lon Jr. He had to wait till his father was safely dead before stepping into his shoes, though. Soon enough he proved himself as a character actor and even, when cleaned up, a leading man, in one of my favorite oldie melodramas, The Shadow of Silk Lennox. But it was just so easy to get jobs in horror films.
His particular niche was slightly dumb, generably amiable, inadvertently sinister character roles. There were quite a lot of them to go around, too. Basically if it was insufficiently classy for Boris Karloff, Chaney got it. He’s most famous for playing the Wolf Man, although to my taste the Spaniard Paul Naschy was better at that role.
Here he is as the faithful servant of a decayed and sinister family in the weirdly mod (check out those opening credits!) 1967 horror flick Spider Baby, or The Maddest Story Ever Told! Someone needs to make an Austin Powers version of this, seriously. Or at least a Scooby Doo one.
In a dilapidated rural mansion, the last generation of the degenerate, inbred Merrye family lives with the inherited curse of a disease that causes them to mentally regress from the age of 10 or so on as they physically develop. The family chauffeur looks out for them and covers up their indiscretions. Trouble comes when greedy distant relatives and their lawyer arrive to dispossess the family of its home.
Bonus: CAROL OHMART! You remember her! From the Vincent Price 1959 classic The House on Haunted Hill (the one that was actually filmed IN the house reputed to be haunted)? She played the conniving trophy wife. Of COURSE she did; just look at her! Anyway, she’s another leading lady who could act rings around most, and who never enjoyed the success she deserved.
Carol Ohmart should have stayed a pantherian brunette rather than a leonine blonde
The suggested cocktail pairing with tonight’s gruesome entertainment is the White Spider Cocktail. Oh yes, there’s another version, but it’s made with vodka and therefore clearly inferior. We’ll wait while you mix yourself one…
Well, I went and did it. I didn’t mean to, but I did it.
I spent the bus fare home.
How? One “buying pizza for a friend” and one trip to Army Navy for supplies. That’s all it takes to zero out the bank account lately: a pizza with wine and a months worth of batteries.
4 D batteries for LED lamp
The cheapest LED lamp they had
4AA batteries for the headlamp, making midnight firewood runs with the wheelbarrow much, much easier
A paperback on living off the sea by a local fisherman
Three space blankets to use as wallpaper to keep the heat in
One fluorescent poncho
One fish grilling basket
Garden trowel for clam digging
And that’s it. That’s all it takes. $85.81. So I emailed my ex-boss to see if he could pay the remainder he owes me tonight or tomorrow instead of month’s end. Wish me luck!
In an effort to appear badass, and perhaps attempting to top their appearance on DouchebagsLoveGreyGoose, douches and douchettes all over the Vangroover club scene are begging someone to take their picture, only to flip them off when they do.
Yes, I said “Vangroover.” Never was a more perfect coinage minted, for that is where these people live: a strange, ill-lit land where everyone is desperate to give the impression they’re not actually from Surrey.
White Rock means never having to say you’re Surrey, Simba
Now, one man is striking back. One man, alone, armed with nothing more than an apparently eye-catching and high-quality photo rig, and a permanent place on the VIP list. And it is glorious.
Fuck you, Combover Boy
FUCK YOU TOO
who are you, Prince William, duke of assholes ;)
If you go out clubbing in this city and fly the colours for the party photographer, and the colours read “Fuck You,” you can be pretty sure that, sooner or later, you will end up on this Tumblr, and NO, he will not take it down.
What are you gonna do, swear at him?
PS I’m pretty sure that on a lot of those tongues flapped out, Miley-style, that bump isn’t a tongue stud, it’s HPV.