To Kick Off Your Memorial Day Weekend, Here's Birthday Boy Vincent Price with an Ode to the 'Gourmet Treat of the National Larder.'

“Here, in all its glory, is the great American hot dog. Originally a sausage invented in Frankfurt, the hot dog is now as American as blueberry pie, and under the proper circumstances it can be one of the gourmet treats of the national larder. At that particular moment when the crack of the bat signals a hit, and the white uniforms move gracefully against the green outfield, at that very moment a hawker stumbles up your aisle, and your wife taps you on the arm and asks you to buy her a hot dog. You miss the play, but you gain the world. Even at that critical moment, there is nothing more soul-satisfying than the first succulent bite into the juicy frankfurter. Whether you slather your hot dog with mustard, relish, and onions, or eat it purist style with just a delicate dab of mustard, it is, in that brief time, the perfect food.” 

-- Vincent PriceXXXX

Favorites :: Vintage Tuneage :: Couldn't Miss This One This Year.

Video courtesy of scamparoo.

"So deck those halls. Trim those trees. 

Raise up cups of Christmas cheer.

I just need to catch my breath; 

Christmas by myself this year."

One of my all time favorite Holiday tunes,
courtesy of The Waitresses.

Why We Fight and Blow @#$% Up...

A Happy

Independence Day

To One and All.

Happy Holidays :: The 7th Annual All Night Christmas Craptacular Movie Marathon!

Geez. Is it that time of year already? Wow. Okay, then, folks, time once again for Yours Truly to gird up the loins and lube the liver for another annual All-Night Christmas Craptacular Movie Marathon to celebrate the one night a year the paper I work for doesn't print and to help chase off and drown out the Ghosts of Christmases past, present and future, if you know what I mean. Honestly, the marathon got a helluva a jump-start this year when a quirk in the schedule garnered me an unexpected three-day weekend, over-which I sat through a couple of MST3k'd Gamera flicks, making the decision to spend Christmas Eve on the Satellite of Love a complete no-(Best)-brainer. And with a combination of DVD's, VHS tapes, Amazon streaming, and YouTube, I've managed to throw together a line-up of my all time favorite episodes:

Obviously, at some point, I shall break for my usual Christmas feast...

So, before we officially get Movie Sign, and commence to drinking and quipping -- 'cuz that's how I push the button, Frank -- I bid you Happy Holidays, one and all.

Or Bah! Humbug, where applicable.

 

Sounds of the Season :: Gift of the Elvi.

About ten days ago I had some birthday money burning a hole in my pocket, and thus and so, broke one of my cardinal seasonal rules. The rule being to avoid going to any retail store between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. I'm not big on crowds to begin with, and since holiday shopping tends to bring out the worst in everybody, like my Ursa major and minor brethren, I usually just hibernate for a couple of months and do my grocery shopping at the 3 in the morning until the Season of Giving 'til it Hurts passes by. 

And so, I found myself warily entering the local movie and music outlet in town one fateful afternoon, specifically to find a couple of Elmore Leonard westerns on DVD, having recently polished off a couple of novels on which they were based had me itching to see them again. Anyways, all they had was a copy of Valdez is Coming, and with that and a copy of Charles Kaufman's vastly underrated Mother's Day tucked under an arm, with an eye on the clock, hoping to beat out of there before the after-school rush arrived, I headed to the checkout lines.

I thought luck was with me when I reached the front of the store and found all four check-out lines empty and made a bee-line for the one whose in-service lamp was lit. Of course, the cash-register sat unattended, and a quick glance showed two employees at the customer service desk -- one of them looking up an item for a costumer on the computer, the other desperately trying to avoid eye-contact with me. This silent non-stare-off continued unabated for several minutes until a little old lady, five-foot nothing, and easily in her mid-80's puttered up to the occupied customer service desk, several lanes over from me, to check out, which, at this point, finally caused the unoccupied clerk to wave me over with a friendly "I can help you over here, sir." 

Of course, how stupid of me to go to the line with the lit lamp. *sigh* Right. Now, having served a seven year stint at a retail outlet that is far as my frustration goes. Having dealt with many an obnoxious asshole -- I mean pompous jerk-off, I mean valued customer, during my register-jockey sentence myself, I gave the no-eye-contact gal a polite smile, gathered up my booty and moved to the appropriate line, right behind the little old lady and her healthy stack of CD's. We both have to wait until the other clerk finishes up with guy looking for a movie whose name escapes me as it soon become apparent that the other clerk is a trainee. And with his expert tutelage, the trainee starts to ring up the person in front of me and in no-time flat sends the register into terminal vapor-lock. The trainer takes over, the old lady apologizes, though she has nothing to apologize for, but between the two of them they kill the register. Kill the register dead.

Not a problem, he says, and instructs us to move to another register, the register where I first got in line, mind you. Here, I pull a Dudley Do-Right and help the elderly lady navigate her way around all the holiday impulse-buy junk clogging the check-out area and into the proper lane. (She couldn't see over the displays.) Her sincere thank you brings another smile to face as I wave it off as no big deal. But then she starts talking to the clerk about how she couldn't find any Elvis Presley gospel or Christmas albums and my fading smile reversed course and grew even wider. Seems this sweet little old lady -- seriously, picture in your head a little old lady and that's exactly who was standing in line in front of me -- had heard Presley bump and grind through "Hound Dog" back in the 1950's and thought that was enough of that guy. She punctuated the point by rattling off the refrain of the same, cocked a hip, laughed, and I failed to stifle one of my own. We continued to laugh, the clerks joining in, as she mea culpas, saying something about seeing a documentary on Presley recently and had no idea about his spiritual side, and how one should never judge.

At this point, I wanted to give this lady a hug to end all hugs, but I refrain. The clerk chimes in, swearing they have several Elvis albums in the racks, and I even offer to help her go and look for some, but she nixes this, saying her pile is big enough. She then starts to write a check, this takes awhile, I don't care, I'm still smiling, and then there's some trouble with the electronic signature, until, finally, her transaction is completed. She apologizes to everyone again for taking so long. Luckily, there was no one else in line to ruin the moment, and I tell her, again, not a problem; anything for a fellow Elvis fan.

W.B. Kelso in the wild (Artist Interpretation).

As she gathered up her purse I felt compelled to offer to help her go and look one last time, but, I fear I look a little too intimidating (-- as I towered over her by nearly a foot and half) and so she declined once more. And as I rattled off a couple of albums she should be on the lookout for, she asked if I could write them down, which, with a lone of pen from the clerk, I did. And with that, and one final wave, she puttered out of the store

And that, folks, totally made my day.

 

 Video courtesy of xxsweetcherrypiexx.

 

For Your Holiday Hangover, Another Rehashed Review :: Nicholas Webster's Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (1964). You're Welcome.

We open on a TV set tuned into the KID Network, whose anchor cheerfully announces that since it’s almost Christmas they have a special report lined-up directly from Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. Sounds like fun, right? Well, no, as we slowly pan around to see who’s watching -- and unless those rumors about sitting too close to the TV are true, we can p'rolly safely assume these green-hued children with the kitchen utensils glued to their heads are Martians. And there is no joy on the Boring Red Planet, where Kimar and his wife-mate, Momar, openly worry about their children, Bomar and Girmar. They won’t eat their food pills; won’t sleep without the help of the sleep-ray; and spend their entire day in front of the tele-screens, watching those silly Earth programs. Case in point, with bedtime approaching, Kimar has to pry his kids away from the screen and set the sleep-ray to full blast.


It’s the same way in households all over Mars, and Kimar doesn’t know what to do until Momar suggests they consult with the ancient Chochem, who's, like, 800 years old and should know what to do. Kimar agrees and calls together the high council, including the spiteful crank, Voldar, to meet him at the endless caves. Once there, Kimar calls to Chochem, and, in a puff of smoke, the wizened old coot appears. And after the dilemma is laid out for him, Chochem says the answer is obvious: the Martian children are rebelling. From the day they are born, they’re hooked into Martian learning machines and are adults before they can walk. Thus, the listless children must learn to have fun. In other words: Mars needs a Santa Claus -- and Larry Buchanan kicks himself for not thinking of this movie first. To read the full, demented review of Santa Claus Conquers the Martians, click here.

Happy Holidays :: The 6th Annual All Night Christmas Craptacular Movie Marathon!

Ho Ho Ho-migod, but its that time of year, already, meaning time for another bout with the Holiday Blues and an all night Booze-Can of film and ferment to kick that funk square in the nethers. Anyways, in picking a theme, thoughts of a Blue Underground Christmas, an evening with Johnny Quest, or a trip through Universal International's sci-fi output were quickly pushed aside for something a little more, well, festive to help smite my melancholy most verily. And thus, I spent the evening with this:


And this...


And then this...


And, yes, even this...


And then, sufficiently boozed up, fearing I'd perhaps had a batch of bad Figgy Pudding (-- thanks a lot, Mr. Cardona), I decided to cleanse the palate, so to speak, with my favorite holiday special of all time.


That's right. It's Johnny LaRue's Street Beef: the Christmas Edition, with LaRrue banished to the frozen hinter streets, where he finally confesses up to his mistakes and is rewarded with the greatest gift of all.

*sigh* I really miss John Candy.

And that about wraps it up ... Feel free to swipe a piece of leftover X-Mas Pie, there, folks. Beyond that:

Happy Holiday, one and all.

Or Bah! Humbug, where applicable.