The Horror of Porn

Hello, film buffs.

I have a thing for horror films. A good old slasher movie always brightens up a Sunday afternoon.

I recently watched Wolf Creek, after several years of stalling. Lauded as “the scariest movie of all time” by several mates, I’m not sure why it took me so long to get to it. But when I did, to my dismay, I discovered there was a lot of driving around in the desert and bushwalking, and not a whole lot of slashing up the protagonists.

I left it too long to watch Wolf Creek.

It’s not so much the “good” ones that let me down. A few B-grade horror movies that made it home from our local Blockbuster on a recent long weekend. On most of them, the storylines were so poor that you couldn’t wait for the blood to start, just so you could be relieved of the appalling acting.

And then it hit me.

We’re all voyeurs (aren’t we?). Film allows us explore unfamiliar subject matter that we may be curious about. Things we may not experience in real life. For the more full-on stuff, sometimes we need a little storyline to help us forget our creepy side. And what other genre of film has a primary subject matter that relies on a hollow pretense to make that subject matter feel less out of place, before the creepy music starts?

That’s right.

Porn.

So, the old “I’m the bloodthirsty zombie ghost in your dreams, and I’m coming to get you” is the new “I’m the pool guy but wait, you don’t even have a pool”. Just saying.

Christmas for Hoarders and Sentimentalists

Hello, Shoppers

Let me let you in on a secret. (Anyone who lives with me will tell you it’s no secret, though.)

Secret 1: I am a hoarder. I compulsively keep things with no use and of no value. Just in case. I might need an obscure tool one day. I’ll get to mending that broken item soon. I’ll definitely need to refer to this tatty half a bill come tax time. Also, quite simply, I detest waste.

Secret 2: I am very sentimental. Irrationally, I quarantine gifts as tokens of love, friendship and familiarity, forever to be treasured as a memoir of those moments we shared together. It might be a total piece of crap; but you gave it to me. I will keep it and remember you by it.

Honestly, I have a serious amount of stuff. Just a peek into one box reveals very nice candle (how nice can a candle get?) that a close friend of mine gave me for my thirteenth birthday. I believe the last time I spoke to the bitch, we called each other some choice names. But this candle, itself now 13 years old… I can’t let it go.

(In fact, I seem, generally, to have a lot of trouble burning candles I receive as gifts. Because once you burn them, they’re gone forever and they leave a horrible mess. But I digress.)

By these secrets combined, I am Captain Crap. When you add the emotional overlay of my sentimentality, my compulsion to keep everything becomes catastrophic. Christmas is the hardest. At these times, it’s not just stuff; it’s stuff that is selected painstakingly and dressed all in bows and tinsel and fairy lights, and thrust towards me in because it is “just so you“.

The thing is, my family don’t know me at all.

Not only that, but we’re big on the surprise presents in our family, with an unsatisfactory track record on doing good surprise presents. (Since we’re talking about the family so much today, we’ll call them… “The Griswolds”.) The Griswolds tend to just miss the mark: some fabulous designer t-shirt is slightly too small; actually, the debut Matchbox 20 album has been in the CD rack since 1997; those vases are just flat out ugly. Don’t get me wrong – not all the presents deserve a Fail, but the Wins are hard to come by.

So, in my battle against the clutter, started keeping very, very specific wish lists. Who wouldn’t be delighted to receive a list of things that your beloved/friend/bloody sister lusts after, conveniently selected to offer a range of prices and store locations and make Christmas shopping for Louie fuss-free?

Believe it or not, the Griswolds do not like it. They are affronted by the suggestion that they cannot think of a present. They consider it a failing to have to refer to the list.

So, for the past few years I have been putting up with this refusal to play ball. And, true to form, I’ve been lovingly – compulsively – keeping these unwanted gifts. But it can’t go on. I’m running out of storage space.

I am close to issuing a mandate to apply to all gift-giving seasons as of Christmas 2010:

1. You do not have to get me a gift. Ever. Again.
2. If you do want to buy me a gift, please refer to the enclosed wish list.
3. If you deviate from the list, please include the receipt with your gift (see, told you the list was easier).
4. If you deviate from the list and do not include the receipt, I may choose to (a) regift the item back to you, possibly on the same day; or (b) sell the item on eBay.

Or… I could save the embarrassment, have a cleanout every now and then, and go back to treasuring “it’s the thought that counts”.

Ah, see? That didn’t hurt a bit.

Mesdames et Messieurs, bienvenue a l’enfer.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to hell.

This goat is in a kind of hell. Well, I'd be in hell too, if I was charged with shitting and puking in the town square.