Reignfall Pt. 2: Words for My Successor
September 16, 2009
To the man who now wears my studly, satin sash––torture porn director, Eli Roth––I offer the following words of wisdom. You may heed them or you may not, that is your choice. In fact, as Mr. September, no doubt your royal journey will take a much different path––one probably less characterized by swarms of sweaty horror, anime and video game fans all trying to get their pictures taken before their makeup runs into their leotards and their cat tails fall off––but it will be no less rewarding if you meet the many challenges ahead. In an effort to guide you, I will try and share tales of my own experience. In doing so, I can only hope therein lies a studly through-line from which you may tether your wayward soul in times of utter despair. In other words, it’s not easy to be a scary stud for 30-plus days in a row, Eli, so drop the fake blood and pay the fuck attention.
To be fair, my arrival in Toronto proved a welcome reprieve for my constitution. After suffering hours of delays in Philadelphia, the paparazzi was kind enough to maintain a wide berth, allowing me free passage to the sidewalk shuttle station from where I would depart for my hotel. On time at :05 am (as it was posted on the pole), I boarded the swanky forty-some-seater and enjoyed the scenery as we headed towards The Royal York––after a few stops to pick up some other passengers. Luckily, I was not recognized. Way too tired for that shit.
I found The York splendidly elegant, and at that late hour, peaceful. This was most welcome, as I was low on energy from internalizing a blind rage that had yet to fully dissipate. Straight to my room I went and inside of a half hour, I was sound asleep. The difference between how it felt to be in a king-sized bed as opposed to any of the assorted airport chairs was, to say the least, marked. And I would find the majority of Toronto to be very much like that: patient, gentle and kind––the way we all hope our first relationship experience will turn out until we’re ritually stomped in the bollocks and left to die in a puddle of our own sick. I’ll advise you to keep this in mind.
I awoke verily refreshed, and enjoyed an expensive breakfast at a restaurant under the hotel. Downtown Toronto has as much going on below the streets as it does above. And if you manage a breakfast at the buffet I attended, the same could be said for you. Blame it on the fruit, if you like, but that Canadian bacon tasted dodgy. I meant to ask the couple next to me dressed head-to-toe in Star Wars fan gear what they thought, but the male of the species was working on a joke. His female counterpart didn’t seem to speak the same language, or so I took it to be judging from her “bad eggs” facial expression. I couldn’t hear the joke, so I can’t comment on its level of comedy. However, it might have been she was too concerned with sorting our her many medications which I saw laid out in front of her to listen to Bland Solo, and who could blame her? It was no time for frivolity, and I hope for everyone’s sake that he added that lesson to his obviously limited repertoire along with “how to eviscerate a grouchy Ewok with a double-ended light saber”.
Now, please understand that I kid. And I really don’t intend to be unduly harsh on the average genre geek/fan/stalker. After all, I was one of them before I ascended to my knightly station. Or was I? Perhaps that was what I was about to learn. I knew I loved horror, and have always gotten along with others who shared my taste in popular culture. In fact, I find them to be some of the brightest and friendliest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. But something didn’t feel quite right as I entered the Expo Center and took my place in one of the dozen snaking lines, e-ticket print-out clenched safely in hand. For one, many of them were dressed up like characters that I didn’t recognize. Others donned costumes of a vaguely Star Trekkian nature, and a few, as far as I could tell, meant to impersonate asthma inhalers. What in the HELL was happening to my convention?
Folks, when you buy tickets to an event, be sure you fully comprehend as to what they actually pertain before hitting the “send payment” button. Not that learning the Festival of Fear was actually only one small part of a much larger FAN EXPO that included comics, sci-fi, anime and video gaming would have stopped me from attending, but at least I wouldn’t have entered the building expecting to be greeted by a legion of zombies and found this instead.
Whoah-ho, there, buckaroonies! Now, I can make out most of these people, but is that “Bar Code Man” back there standing next to “The Mom Jeans Avenger”? It appears Supergirl doesn’t know who they are either, although her face tells me she may very well have just gotten her period. Perhaps she’s eavesdropping on “Leprechaun Hollywood Agent Man’s” conversation with “Bet You Can’t Guess Where I’ve Stuck My Bluetooth Headset Man” all the way on the left. Look, I like superheros just as much as the next 12 year-old, but I still don’t think there was an age in my development when I would have been excited by “Gerbil Boy” down front there. Especially if he was wearing a shoe on his right hand like this one appears to be. Sorry if I’m being mean, but that doesn’t say “super” on any level to me.
Like it or not, I was going to have to share the cavernous space with birds of another feather. And far be it from me to claim superiority over any of them. There’s a danger in doing that. That’s how you slip hopelessly into that place where the idea of making love to a cardboard cutout of Princess Leia in your parent’s basement seems like a dream too far. Nay, there is room for all in the world of fantasy-blurred-reality, and I was prepared to mingle with the hoi-polloi no matter how snug their utility belts.
It took approximately one full hour to navigate the maze that led into the main room, which is a lot of time to wonder if you’re at the right convention. A few kind souls assured me I was, and I remember feeling something akin to “thankful”. Still, not familiar with waiting, I did a fair amount of fidgeting and took a far more than healthy interest in the bride and groom zombies directly in front of me. Not so much because their costumes were elaborate and clearly painful to withstand––although that much was clearly true––but more because they were about nine and ten years old and their un-constumed parents were pimping their pictures out at a rate of seventy per minute. For the first thirty or so I stepped out of line so as not to be the “bored dick in the back”, but then I stopped bothering. A quick look around the Interweb provided not one example of the little darlings, so perhaps mom and dad haven’t gotten www.embarrassthefuckoutofmykids.net up and running yet. Therefore, allow, if you will, a dramatization.
I'm the batshit insane woman behind the sign caught in a lame "duck-away".
Imagine the thrill when I learned that the bride’s dress was, in fact, the mother’s actual wedding dress. “What else are you going to do with it?” she shrieked when asked about it by another giddy attendee in the process of capturing her treasures for the ages. Unfortunately, it was at that point that the dress began to fall apart. The safety pin used to fasten the back seemed to lose its hold, and I immediately began to feel sorry for the little girl. It was only 10 am and already there was a wardrobe malfunction. I started hoping her mother was carrying a change of clothes for her, but alas, I saw nothing of the sort. Poor, half-naked, sticky, little blood-streaked girl, I’m thinking, this could put her off the concept of marriage forever. Oh well, at least the cycle would be broken.
Listen, I really don’t mean to be cruel. Honestly, I don’t. To tell you the truth, I wish my mother and father saw it fit to have this much fun with me when I was a mortified fat kid with no friends. Who knows, maybe I just wasn’t fat and friendless enough? I sure am now!
I’m not fat at all, actually. And okaaaay, either were the kids. Much. Shame on me.
Moving on, I finally got into the main room, weaved my way through the throngs of gamers, comic bookers, anime-ers, picture-taker-ers, and found my planet, my people: the Festival of Fear. It was located at the far end by the Magic the Gathering cafeteria table-style competition arena (a facility that would go criminally underused, I’m sorry to say) and there was much horror goodness on display: t-shirts, masks, posters, jewelry, tattoos, memorabilia, Zombie Jesus graphic novels, corsets, better for worsets, and just about anything you or I could imagine. And as expected, the Rue Morgue booth was interesting and filled with lots of cool and helpful people who acted very interested in my questions and comments. I even made a connection with Burning Effigy Press and I hope to work with them soon. To show my appreciation of their enterprise, I shelled out 25 Canadian for a glow-in-the-dark t-shirt which I’m actually wearing right now. As far as I was concerned, phase one of my Studly domination was complete. I was in, the atmosphere as electric as a PS2 dual shock controller, and there were a few special celebrities I was fixing to meet. I’ll save those stories for next time, but to give you a little taste, imagine braving this…
To get to this…
Only to find…
…well, you get the idea. I leave you with a video of the band that featured at the Rue Morgue “Dance of the Deadites” after party, Psychocharger. Before you watch it, let me tell you about the time when my band kicked into the very dramatic beginning of a Halloween gig with hundreds watching only to have the cheap-ass stage banner we were forced to rig together at the very last minute fall directly on top of our drummer. There is no more uncomfortable silence in the universe, I can assure you. Because you see, Eli, sometimes…well, sometimes things just don’t go exactly like you want them to, and then they kind of do and them’s the memories you get. Until next time, Studdites…
Reignfall: Mr. August Heads to Toronto
September 1, 2009
Now that my reign as Mr. August has technically come to an end, it’s time to reflect on the opportunities it has afforded me to see the world, meet some amazing people, and really make a difference.
As Stud of the Month I got to see how the charmed world works behind the golden curtain. In short, I was better than most of you for thirty-one glorious days where I was fed sugar-coated grapes, fanned with giant, starched thongs, and basically had whatever I wanted brought to me within seconds of my asking. And did I take advantage? You bet your ass, I did.
My first order of business was to seek revenge against all those who said I would never amount to anything. Yes, Walter Hennis, I’m looking at you. Thought you were cool making me cry at the baseball field by stealing my snow cone and dumping it in the trash, didn’t you? Well, when I was Mr. August I ate a different flavored snow cone for each day of the week. You? You went to prison, didn’t you? They got any snow cones in the joint, Walter? Riiiiight, didn’t think so.
Walter wasn’t the only person I exacted revenge against, but the best thing about being a celebrity is that you’re having so much fucking fun, other people––not just those who have wronged you, but everyone–––simply don’t count. Not only that, but doors open to places you’ve never been and that’s where I’d like to concentrate my entry today.
A week or so ago (it’s hard to remember, as the days of wine and roses flew by so fast) I booked a trip to Rue Morgue’s Festival of Fear in Toronto. The plan was to fly out early Friday afternoon (1:15 pm, US Airways) and get into my hotel by no later than four. That would leave me a whole hour to don my studly robes and get over to the festivities that were scheduled to begin around 5 pm. One of the coolest parts of the whole business would involve being able to traverse the couple of blocks to the convention center underground, therefore protected from any inclement weather. This is the kind of privilege I had grown accustomed to enjoying, and what better way to celebrate the last few days of my title than in utter, almost grotesque, opulence.
Friday arrives and it’s nearly time for me to head out of my little seaside town and make the hour or so trip to the Philadelphia airport. Before I can go, however, I need to work out in a show of respect for my exclusive station. No one wants to see a flabby Mr. August, so I humbly oblige. Just as I’m finishing, things begin to grow very dark outside. Then, thunder, followed by an electrical storm the likes I haven’t seen since the beginning of the War of the Worlds remake. Blood-sucking alien beings or not, I’ve got to make my flight so I brave a quick shower (washing all my parts, relax) and finish packing. Ready to go now, I see that the gods of scariness have rightfully granted me reprieve. Now I won’t have to cover myself with my bags as I make my way to the car. It will also be easier to drive, which will do wonders for my stress level.
But the gods, one discovers, are dicks. When I get outside I find that my street is underwater. Having flooded and totaled a car before in this town (a Ford Explorer, no less) I’m a little concerned that my tiny, Toyota Matrix will suffer a similar fate, causing me to miss my flight and denying a rabid, North American fan expo populace the chance to touch my cape. My neighbor Gene, bless his guidance, figures it’s still low tide so I should make it. Only, I should head the wrong way down my one way street (as it’s shorter that way and not as deep) and keep my speed high. I concur, and inside of ten seconds I’m backing into the deluge and revving my engine.
Recreation of Mr. August's escape from town by the Stud of the Month Players (I'm the donkey, Gene's the naked black man, and let's just call the boy "urgency").
I gun it, spraying plumes of oily saltwater on the curious plebs dangling from the nearby hotel, and head into the turn. I make it, but not before I nail a curb with my tire (which later, I would discover, will require my purchasing a new one). Once on the main road out of town, I find myself stuck behind a slow-moving van. Nothing a little laying on of the horn won’t fix, and before I know it, I’m on my way over the bridge and into an epic, Mr. Augustian destiny.
However, destiny, in case you weren’t following along, is organized by the gods. Those are the dicks, remember? If you do, then you won’t be surprised to learn that when I arrive at check-in after parking my car in the long-term garage, I’m told that my flight is canceled. What’s worse, there are no other flights until the following morning. Come to find after some wrangling and a little luck, the person “assisting” me has fucked it all up and there is, in fact, a flight that evening. She books it, fucks that up, too, and after some running between terminals, the greater airline employment union manage to get me a single, fucking seat. Good people, I often despair at the failures I am forced to accept that define our stage of evolution as a species––racism, sexism, dickism––but nowhere can there be found more depth in human FAIL than at an airport. It is an ideal barometer for where we’re going and and let me tell you it’s somewhere in the outskirts of Cleveland and we’re getting there late.
Anyhow, seeing that my flight is at 7:40 which means I will miss the start of the convention, all that’s left to do is read for about three hours in a freezing cold airport foyer until I can check my bags, which can only be done four hours prior to when the flight is scheduled. Philadelphia airport, in case you weren’t aware, has no shops or eateries outside of security check-in, so unless you’ve brought your own, you’re stuck shivering and watching very wet people come in and out, all making the same kinds of errors in judgment that we’ve come to identify with being a human at an airpot. These are not circumstances in which I, Mr. August, have signed up for nor expected to have to withstand. But you don’t get a studly title by being a wuss, so I persevere. Three Steven King short stories later, my bags are checked and I’m putting my shoes back on. I’ll skip the part where, trying to find my belt, my pants fell down and I was bare-assed for about three seconds. Suffice it to say, it was as close to an act of terrorism as any I’ve ever committed. Although, I’m willing to bet my ass was in the 99 percentile of the people there.
Ass now covered, I head to my gate and discover that the flight has been delayed to 9:00. That means I’ll likely miss any night life I might have been able to explore in downtown Toronto, but there’s little I can do about it. Just as there was little I could do about the flight being delayed to 10:00 an hour or so later. So, at this point I’m about $30 down (thanks airport chicken sandwich and two beers price setters!) and I can barely see. Airports blind me. I’m not exactly sure why, but I think it has to do with the air-conditioning, the mix of perfumes and B.O., and the way things are all so far away until they’re right in your face. Your eye is so fatigued from focusing every other second, that it eventually just says, “Here, use this blurry setting. I’m fucking fatigued”. And like that, the eye becomes an airport employee and just gives you what it can and there’s fuck all you can do about it.
Just when I’m beginning to think my reign will end before Senator Ted Kennedy’s funeral is over, an actual, bona fide airplane shows up at the gate. And it looks to be in one piece! Hurrah! Woot! Yay! GET OUT OF MY WAY!!! I board, we take off, and I’m on my way to the great white north. Stay tuned as there’s more stud-of-the-month news next entry. To whet your appetite a bit, enjoy the demo reel of a brilliant animator fella I met in downtown Toronto at a place called The Loose Moose. More on him next time.
