Ed Wood Wednesdays, week 253: We are living in Ed Wood's paradise

I don't know if Ed Wood made it to heaven, but he might think we already live there.

Wherever you are right now, I want you to take a moment and look around you. Pry your eyes away from your phone, tablet, or laptop and study your surroundings. Are you impressed with what you see? Well, you should be, because you are living in paradise. At least from Ed Wood's perspective, you are.

Let me explain.

Filmmaker and author Edward Davis Wood, Jr. (1924-1978) spent the last three decades of his life living in Hollywood and trying to find a place for himself in the movie industry. He never really found one, so he was relegated to the margins of show business, working first in low-budget independent pictures and then in pornography. Along the way, he supplemented his income by writing paperback books, short stories, and magazine articles, usually of an adult nature. Prolific as he was in all fields, Ed never made enough money to cover his expenses and so lived in abject poverty for decades. He was also a heavy drinker and chronic smoker. These factors, along with job-related stress and poor diet, led to his early death at the age of 54.

I would suggest that many of the problems Ed Wood faced in the 1950s, '60s, and '70s have been either alleviated or eliminated altogether by the 2020s. Had Eddie been born at a later time, he still might never have found mainstream success—his work is simply too idiosyncratic for that, regardless of budgetary concerns—but he would not have had to live as miserably and die as prematurely as he did. And I say that because of a few larger societal trends.

Ed Wood Wednesdays, week 196: The Ed Wood Experience Project (a modest proposal)

Some Ed Wood math. Are my calculations correct?

"Come out and play!"

A few years ago, I was watching Walter Hill's cult classic The Warriors (1979) when a strange thought occurred to me. As much as I enjoy this highly stylized film about urban decay and gang violence, with its memorable catchphrases ("Can you dig it?") and its outlandishly-costumed hoodlums, I was not watching it in the way it was intended. This film should not be enjoyed from the comfort of a couch in a nice, cozy living room. For maximum impact, you should see it in a sleazy New York grindhouse where you'd think twice about even going into the bathroom for fear of being mugged or worse. Ideally, this theater should also be one where you'd have to take the subway to get home, and your paranoia about that upcoming journey would be on your mind as you watched the film.

I've had similar thoughts while writing these articles about Edward D. Wood, Jr. Sure, I can watch Eddie's movies and read his many books and articles, and I can theorize about what was happening in Ed's life at the time he created them—for instance, how drunk or sober he was. But what do I really know about this man? After all, I was just three years old when he died. I don't drink. I've never been a Marine, a husband, an actor, a novelist, a pornographer, or a film director. 

What's more, I've lived my entire life in the Midwest: first Michigan, then Illinois. I've been to New York City a couple of times but never Eddie's hometown of Poughkeepsie. As for the city where Ed lived and worked for the last three decades of his life, I haven't visited Los Angeles since I went there with my parents on a family vacation many decades ago, and I saw the city mainly from the vantage point of an air-conditioned tour bus. (I did get to meet Cesar Romero, though. On Rodeo Drive, no less!) Cross-dressing has never appealed to me, not even for Halloween. All of my teeth are real, except for one in the front.

If I squint, I can just barely make out a few points of similarity between myself and Ed Wood. We're both Caucasian males born in America during the 20th century. I have written professionally and have dealt with editors, deadlines, and meager paychecks. I share Eddie's interest in classic Hollywood films, especially those of the Universal horror variety. Technically, by the standards of my county, I am living just below the poverty line. But I am frugal with what little money I have, so I've never experienced the bleak, paycheck-to-paycheck desperation that was Eddie's constant reality. Plus, Ed Wood had two expensive, bank-account-draining habits—alcoholism and filmmaking—that aren't a part of my life at all. So my existence is vastly different from Ed's. How could I understand this man without ever wearing an angora sweater or drinking rotgut whiskey?

Leroy victorious!

It had to end with one of them dying.

The comic strip The Lockhorns, originally created by cartoonist Bill Hoest (1926-1988), has been running since 1968. It is currently being continued by Hoest's widow, Bunny. The strip concerns two married, middle-aged suburbanites, Leroy and Loretta Lockhorn, who are constantly at odds over just about everything: money, food, alcohol, leisure time, etc. Despite the title of the strip, these two do not usually lock horns, i.e. argue vigorously with each other. Generally, one will just lob an insult at the other, who will just stand there and patiently take it. 

That's how it's gone for nearly 60 years. But what would a Lockhorns finale look like? That's what I tried to imagine in the following cartoon.

If the Sistine Chapel ceiling had been painted by Mort Walker instead of Michelangelo

Here, God is represented as lecherous, senile, alcoholic General Amos Halftrack.

It would have looked like this.

What is the deal with Father's Day cards? Am I right, people?

Today, there would be sarcastic quotes around the "dear" part.

NOTE: This is a, um, "golden classic" from the vast Dead 2 Rights archives. In other words, it's a rerun from 2011. But since it's Father's Day, I figured I'd try to get some extra mileage out of it. The sentiments it expresses are as true today as they were four years ago.

If you wish to meditate upon our society's ambiguous and sometimes troubling attitudes towards fatherhood, you have an EXCITING opportunity to do so this weekend! Yep, just truck on down to your local grocery store, card shop, or pharmacy and spend some time browsing through their selection of Father's Day cards. Prepare to be astonished and possibly horrified by what you find. Now, of course, you can always go the sappy, sentimental route or the religious route. That's true of virtually every holiday or major observance. But if you want to go the "lightly humorous" route, Father's Day offers its own unique challenges. I'm sure I was not the only person who spent many minutes trying to find a card that I would not be completely mortified to send to my father and have him actually read. The card I wound up choosing this year had the following legend on its cover:

You Made Me the Person I Am Today! 

And on the inside, it read:

How Can You Sleep at Night? 

Followed, of course, by the cheerful tagline:

Happy Father's Day!

In retrospect, this seemingly-innocent little witticism is actually quite barbed and nasty. The implication is, "I am a neurotic and messed-up adult, Dad, and I blame you entirely. I am baffled by the fact that you can sleep while in possession of this horrible knowledge. Any creature capable of emotion would be tortured to the point of sleeplessness over this, but you apparently are a bloodless and unfeeling monster. Still in all, I hope you enjoy this holiday dedicated to you and your tyrranical kind." Kind of harsh, right? But believe me, it was the best one I could find. To peruse the Father's Day cards at the local store is to navigate an emotional minefield, I tell you.

The basic themes of "humorous" Father's Day cards are these:

1. Dad, you are an alcoholic who cherishes beer more than your own children.
2. You are a repellent and disgusting troll whose primary modes of self-expression are belching and flatulence.
3. You are also a perverted old lecher who lusts after younger women.
4. You use golf, television, and home improvement projects as excuses for avoiding contact with your own family.
5. At home, you are merely a useless figurehead who serves no real purpose. Knowing this, you choose to spend your time parked in a recliner in front of the television.
6. Your true importance to the family unit is as a provider of income. Money and work define you. In fact, I would like to use this very card as an opportunity to borrow money from you.

It's a pretty bleak picture, I know. But that's the basic message I get from Father's Day cards. I'm not the only one who's picked up on this. Here's a 2008 article from the Grand Rapids Press on the very same topic. I think the underlying issue with these cards is that we really do have an ambiguous attitude towards fatherhood in this country. The post-Industrial-Revolution male has no well-defined role within his own home. Women are still expected to be the ones who do the actual day-to-day raising of children. Maybe as traditional gender roles break down and new paradigms for family life are established, the public's nebulous opinion of this thing called "fatherhood" will evolve. For a check-up on how we're doing as a society on this matter, I'd suggest keeping an eye on the greeting card department!

Ed Wood Wednesdays, week 56: 'Howl of the Werewolf' (1973)

A werewolf looms over a Daisy Duke-wearing maiden in this vintage artwork.

"And above all, never forget that the pen is mightier than the plow-share. By this I mean that writing, all in all, is a hell of a lot more fun than farming. For one thing, writers seldom, if ever, have to get up at five o'clock in the morning and shovel manure. As far as I'm concerned, that gives them the edge right there."

-Michael O'Donoghue, "How to Write Good"

Hunter S. Thompson

A commonly-repeated anecdote about the late gonzo journalist Hunter S Thompson is that, while working for Time magazine in the 1950s, he used to retype pages from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby (1925) verbatim, just so he would know what it felt like to write a great novel. While I have never gone to quite such lengths, I have wondered what it would be like to inhabit Ed Wood's skin -- or at least his apartment -- for an afternoon or so. What must it been like, for instance, in those desperate, whiskey-drenched days of the early 1970s when Eddie would drag himself back to his trusty typewriter in order to bang out yet another short story for one of Bernie Bloom's pornographic magazines? 

I'd like to think that, despite his ever-worsening circumstances, Ed was able to will himself into an inspired artistic trance when he wrote these stories. The muse inhabited his ruined body and guided his ten furiously-typing fingers. Though he needed quick cash to keep his landlady at bay and settle his tab at Pla-Boy Liquor, conveniently located just down the street from his profoundly-sketchy flat at the corner of Yucca and Cahuenga, Ed Wood was never wholly a mercenary. It just wasn't in his DNA. 

Whatever you may think of him, Eddie was an artist. Even when he was writing pornography, he made it his own. That's why I've kept such careful records of the themes and motifs that dominate his work. Eddie may have assayed a half-dozen different genres in his novels and stories, but the only writer he could really imitate was himself, just like Hunter S. Thompson ended up developing his own unique writing style, even though he apprenticed for his trade by literally imitating F. Scott Fitzgerald. Everything Hunter wrote came out sounding like Hunter, not Fitzgerald, and everything Ed Wood wrote came out sounding like Ed Wood. 

How much for the sweater?

I do not and cannot write like Eddie did. That's neither a boast nor an admission of failure, just a fact. I've spent many hours with Ed Wood's work over the last couple of years, but I can't really channel the man. Lots of people have tried -- look at the tribute films I've covered in this series -- but Eddie has proven stubbornly inimitable. If you'll remember, one week of this project was actually given over to an original short story, written by me and inspired by Plan 9 from Outer Space, but there's nothing particularly Wood-ian about it in terms of structure or vocabulary. For better or worse, that story is me, not Ed. 

But that doesn't mean I've given up trying to invoke or evoke the spirit of Edward Davis Wood, Jr. This will sound ridiculous, but I have actually gone so far as to price angora sweaters, just so I can wrap one around me when I write. Similarly, I don't drink, but I've considered taking up the habit, just so I can feel closer to Eddie whenever I need to. I mean, alcoholism was one of the central facts of his life. It affected so much of what he wrote, including this week's story. How can I possibly hope to understand that "glow" Eddie claimed to get from booze, unless I sample a little of it myself now and again?

For the time being, I am not going to become a drunk or an angora fetishist in the name of research. Instead, what I have done this week is to faithfully transcribe a complete short story from the early 1970s by Edward Davis Wood, Jr., right down to those idiosyncrasies in punctuation and grammar. When Eddie conjugates the past tense of "sink" as both "sank" and "sunk," for instance, I have let it stand. In actuality, typing up this story did fleetingly make me feel a little like the man whose life and career I've been faithfully over-analyzing the last few months. I liked the feel of these words emerging from my fingertips. Ed wrote with a lot of verve and energy, and I felt a little of that vicariously. This is an erotic werewolf story -- and, yeah, I know how that sounds -- from the same era of Eddie's career as the short stories in Blood Splatters Quickly: The Collected Stories of Edward D. Wood, Jr., the anthology I reviewed at length and in detail late last year. 

"Howl" was not one of the stories in that invaluable omnibus, but it would have been right at home there. Many of the classic Wood-ian motifs are present in this tale. Sex and death are intertwined in the most literal way possible. (You'll soon find out what I mean.) Mention is made of full moons, graves, snakes, dildos, and negligees. Breasts are again fetishized. The animal instinct lurking within man is once more given free reign. Yet another one of Wood's frustrated career gals -- in this case, a restless secretary -- seeks solace in nature, only to learn too late that salvation is impossible in this fallen world. And, naturally, our heroine's drinking habits are much-discussed. (Wood's potent potable of choice, whiskey, is a key prop in this story.) 

As for a deeper meaning, I'm stumped. Is this a puritanical story about a female libertine paying for her "sinful" lifestyle? Is it a cautionary tale for young women, warning them to be on the lookout for predatory males? Or is it perhaps a quasi-feminist work, presenting a sympathetic female character who just wants to be taken seriously without sacrificing her own pleasure? Maybe it's all of the above. Read on and decide for yourself.

"Howl of the Werewolf"

by Edw. D. Wood, Jr.

(originally published in Deuce, vol. 2, no. 3, Gallery Press, 1973)

Deuce magazine.

It was the constant howling which unnerved Rita. It hadn't ceased since the moon became full. She rolled over on her bed and looked to the bright moonlit window ... then she cringed again as the eerie howl seemed to fill the entire night. There was no other sound ... and it seemed closer ... almost as if it were right outside the window.
     For a brief moment she thought about closing the window. But that would have made the room impossible. It was stifling even with the window open, it would have been a complete furnace closed.

     But she got out of the bed and crossed to the window. She tested the screen. It was secure. Then she went back to the bed and took up a sheer negligee which she slipped into. She hugged her arms around her breasts as the howl came again and a sudden chill shook her entire being. A chill where there wasn't even the slightest breeze.

     Once more she crossed to the window and looked out into the deep shadows. The moon made the countryside almost as light as day, but where the trees and brush cast their shadows it was pitch black.

     And it was from the pitch blackness that the howls originated.

     "And when the moon is full," she whispered to herself, "the werewolf prowls." Then she grinned. "Bull shit!" She turned her back to the window, but still hugged her arms around her front. "Now I'm talking to myself ... and talking like a fool to boot." She began to pace the floor. "Got to get my mind off such thoughts. Damned nonsense coming out here in the woods by myself in the first place. What in hell is a city girl doing in the wild ... got to be out of my mind."

     The howl came on strong, sharp, then trailed off in a long wail.

     Slowly she walked back to the bed and laid down. There was one thing she could think about which might take her mind off of the present situation. SEX was a powerful mind exploder. If anything could dismiss those howls, the thoughts of sex would be that entity.

     When was the last time? It seemed like a month but in reality it had only been three nights before. The night before her vacation was to start. It had been Willie. Good old Willie ... the office manager. She'd had him several times before, but that last time stuck strongly in her mind. He came at her like a tiger. It appeared almost as if he'd been sex starved for months. But that wasn't so.

     "It's just something I feel about you leaving for these two weeks. It seems like such a long time," he had said. 

     "It will go by faster than you think." 

      "I hope so. But why stake yourself way out in the woods like that? Going back to nature might be alright for some people, but good Lord Rita. You're city born and bred. Take a cocktail lounge and a television set away from you and you'll go ape." 

     "I'm taking a cocktail lounge with me." 

     "It won't be the same." 

     "So maybe I'll become a lone, silent drinker." 

     "You'll be back in two days." 

     "Not on your life. I'm determined to stick it out. I've never been in the woods before. It's something I've dreamed of for years. Who knows! Maybe I'll like it." 

     "Honey you'll go ape-shit without a guy between your legs for two weeks. Look! You might kid somebody else, but I know you. You got to have a guy and his rod. You can't go two weeks without it."

     "I'll take a dildo with me." 

     "Oh be serious." 

     "What makes you think I'm not serious." 

     "Snakes, wolves, bears ... you'll piss in your panties every night."

     "Maybe I won't wear any." Then she had reached over and pulled his head down to her pubic region. "Kiss me ... kiss me there."

     He buried his nose and his tongue deep into her muff and her eyes closed and her hands went to her own breasts which she rubbed rhythmically. Her head suddenly began to toss from side to side and her buttocks rose and fell to meet his every action.

     The explosion, when it finally came felt as if it were going to tear her insides out. She liked that and she screamed at the height of the sensual heats.

     A quick series of howls, one after another brought her back to the present ... howls which seemed to be just outside the window. She came to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Horror, terror is a thing that comes out of the night ... an entity that does exist ... a something that no one sees, but all can feel, realize. Rita was realizing that terror more and more with each passing second. She would have screamed if it would have done any good. But what good could a scream be? There was not another house or cabin within ten miles. That was the reason she rented that particular cabin in the first place. It was far away from anybody else and it was close enough to a quiet lake ... she'd seen many pictures of the moonlight reflecting across a quiet lake. She wanted to see the real thing. 

      But it wasn't turning out quite the way she had thought it would. The days were fine. But the nights ... that was something else. The night before had been bad enough, but that second night of the full moon ... the howling outside had grown in intensity. She clasped her hands tightly over her ears but the sounds were not shut out ... stuffing cotton in her ears also made no difference, she found that out the night before.

     Where were the cricket sounds and the other night noises? There was nothing but that wolf howl ... even more horrible when a cloud traveled across the face of the moon ... the sound was a cry for release from the grave ... a lost soul screaming from the depths of hell. She knew the sound was that of a wolf cry even though she'd never heard one before, except in the movies. And the wolf was outside, not there in the room. It couldn't come tearing through that tough screen on her bedroom window and all the other doors of the cabin were locked.

     Rita had never been one to frighten easily. But she'd also never been alone in the woods, far from civilization before. The woods had their own sounds ... sounds that would take a lifetime of living with them to fully understand. 

     She walked back to the bed and laid down. She locked her wide eyes on the ceiling where they would remain until the sun came up and the sounds of the woods came back to a more normal atmosphere. She hadn't closed her eyes all night ... and even more so it was a long time after sunup before she unfroze her body and stood up. All night she swore she was going to get out of that cabin as soon as the day was upon her once more. But something about the sun, the daylight seemed to make everything alright again.

     In the bathroom she stripped off her negligee and nightgown then lifted her breasts with each hand. They were firm and young and inviting ... even to herself they were inviting. At times she would raise them high enough so that she might kiss each nipple. The thought raced through her mind even at that moment, but she didn't. Instead she got into a lukewarm shower which she later turned into a cold one. The sparkling clear water quickly snapped all the cobwebs out of her brain, and she began to feel alive again.

     "Now why in the world would a howling dog or wolf or whatever it was give me such a sleepless night?" she said aloud to her towel while she went through the drying off process. "I've waited a lifetime for a vacation alone in the woods. I sure as hell would be a creep if I turned heels and ran. Silly!" Once more she turned and viewed herself in the full length mirror. She turned slightly from side to side so that she could take in all the delights of her luscious body. "After all I'm no child. I'm a grown woman." She winked at herself.

     She put on a thin nylon blouse over a matching skirt. She hated sneakers but they were comfortable for the long walks in the woods she planned. But there was something more important than a walk that she had to do first.

     The village was some twenty-five miles away, but she wanted a pistol and in order to get one she had to make the drive. She hadn't really noticed the place when she drove through it on the way to the cabin. But that had been at night and she was tired. She hadn't missed much. Except for a couple of cabins there was a gas station, a beer bar and the general store. She went immediately to the general store.

     "Oh no, ma'am," replied the ancient storekeeper as he looked over his steel rimmed glasses. "You can't take a pistol with you just like that. Takes three days. Got to put the order through the police and get their okay and that takes three days ... Way out here ... maybe five or six. But three days is the shortest time."

     "But I need it right away. There's a wolf prowling around my cabin. I need the protection."

     The old man winked, perhaps remembering incidents in his own youth. I sure bet there's a lot of wolves prowling around your door ... " Then he changed the subject back to the gun again. "Ain't nothing I can do about the pistol. but if you really got to have a gun." He turned to a gun case which he unlocked and took down a twenty-two. "Now this here's a new light weight twenty-two. Holds twelve shots, long rifle. This you can take right with you."

     "Will a twenty-two kill a wolf?"

     "If you hit him in the right place. You a good shot?"

     "I don't know. I've never fired a gun before."
     "Then you better stay in your cabin at night and keep the door locked ... You don't need no gun." 

     "Show me how to use it."

     She reached the cabin just as the sun was sinking over the distant mountain and the rays had turned to a fire red. She watched the shadows deepen for a long moment then she picked up the rifle and then entered the cabin. She put the rifle and an extra box of ammunition on the kitchen table, then went into the living room area where she sunk into a deep fur-covered chair and kicked off her sneakers.

     The drive had been tiring. She had taken her time on the mountain roads, but still it had been tiring. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again it was nearly dark and the man in the white shirt and denim slacks stood looking down at her.

     Rita snapped forward in her chair, startled. The man grinned but made no move toward her.

     "I have a gun in the house," she said for lack of anything else to say.

     "I know. I saw it on the kitchen table." Then he waved his hand slightly. "There is nothing to be frightened of. I knocked several times and when there was no answer I tried the door. It was unlocked, so I came in. It was easy to see why my knocking went unanswered. You were really asleep."

     "I had a sleepless night and a very long drive today." She felt no fear of the man. She stood up. "Are you lost?"

     "Something like that. I've taken a cabin in the higher mountains for the summer. I started for the village and only got this far along the road. Seems that a boulder cut loose from the high ground and fell to the road. I didn't see it until it was too late. Broke an axle I suppose. Yours was the closest cabin. Thought you might have a telephone."

     "I don't."

     "I guess most of the cabins up here in these mountains lack the modern means of communications. I suppose I'll have to put up a smoke signal like the Indians."

     Rita laughed. "I certainly can't send you out at this time of night to roam through the fierce jungle. You know there are wolves out there." 

     "I've heard them." He lowered his eyes momentarily then raised them again. "A body'd have to be dead not to hear them."

     "You're welcome to stay here tonight." She indicated the living room couch. "You can stay on the couch then in the morning I'll drive you into the village."

     "Now that's what I call hospitality."

     "Like a drink? Whiskey is all I have."

     "Now that's what I call double hospitality."

     She got up and went to the kitchen cabinet. The drinks were mixed with water and when the man had captured his he sank down on the couch while Rita went back to her chair.

     "I'm Rita Raleigh ... secretary ... on a mountain vacation for two weeks."

     "Kent Tenstyle ... rich ... young ... and willing." 

     Rita liked that part of it. It had only been a few nights, but she felt the crotch of her panties getting damp. "And good looking," she ventured. 

     "You're not something a guy could turn away from either Miss Raleigh." 

     "Miss Raleigh makes me sound positively ancient. Let's make it Rita." 

     He nodded and took a large gulp of his drink. 

     "I had my dinner in the village before I left. But I can get you something."

     "Don't bother. I'm not hungry ... for food that is." His eyes twinkled, and Rita had been around men long enough to know what that twinkle really meant. She could almost picture his thoughts as his eyes roved over her lovely body, and she wondered if he could figure her thoughts. 

     He moved to stand very close to her when she went to make a refill of their drinks. She didn't turn to face him at that precise moment but she could smell his man smell behind her and again his thoughts seemed to be pressing themselves into the back of her head. 

     She liked what she was feeling and the closer he came to her the more that feeling was intensified. She found herself wanting to feel his arms around her ... it seemed an eternity since she had a tongue sticking into her mouth ... the male sex organ parting her pubic hairs. Her thighs trembled at the thought ... the expectancy. And when is hands came down lightly on the back of her shoulders she turned slowly. He took the glasses from her hands and put them on the kitchen table near the rifle and ammunition. They looked at each other for a long time, their eyes locked in the heat of the moment. 

     His arms went around her and her lips raised to his and then she was feeling his tongue slashing within her mouth. And with their lips locked together he used his right hand to unbutton her blouse and when it opened her naked breasts popped into sight. "The bedroom," she mumbled through the tight lips ... 

     "Yes," he sighed, but didn't release the pressure of his lips. His hand found one of her lovely globes and he placed the nipple between two fingers. "The bedroom." 

     The movement of light in the sky out through the open kitchen door caught his eyes. He focused them on that growing light. 

     Rita's eyes were closed and she clung to the man desperately, as one who is starved for all the experiences she craved. 

     At first it was only a crescent, but the yellow glow was quickly forming into the perfect ball it would soon be. The moon was following the sun around the earth. Soon it would be full, and clear in the deep black velvet of the night.

     Kent stared at the coming event, and the corners of his eyes began to twitch. At the same moment Rita felt the change in her lover. She pulled away slightly and looked at him, but his eyes were fastened to that void beyond the door.

     "What is it Kent?" 

     He did not answer her. In reality he had not even heard her words. His hands dropped to his sides as he turned full to face the open door. Momentarily Rita stepped around in front of him but he didn't seem to realize her presence. She moved back more to the center of the room. Her eyes dropped to the rifle, then once more raised up to the back of Kent's head. 

      Something strange was happening to the man. The hair, damp hair, at the nape of his neck was growing by the second. She looked down to his hands and hair was growing rapidly there. His shoulders seemed to broaden and become slightly hunched forward giving his back a rounded appearance. 

     "What is it Kent? What's happening?" 

     Still there were no words from the man, but she could hear his sudden heavy breathing and a slight gurgling sound which drifted up through his throat. His back was to her and it heaved heavily. He began to pant like a dog in heat. 

     Fright built itself quickly in Rita's heart. She snapped up the rifle and aimed it at his back, but she did not fire. "Kent. I want to know what is happening!" 

     Her breasts popped in and out of her open blouse front with every panicky breath she took. She bit at her trembling lip. One hand left the rifle to brush the hair out of her eyes, then went immediately back to steady the weapon. 

     Kent threw his head far back and the howl of the wolf filled the entire room and it was only topped by the piercing scream which issued from Rita's throat ... Then she fired shot after shot from the rifle. She saw each of the bullets strike their mark in the creature's back. The rifle then locked in silence when the last shot was fired. She screamed again and the rifle fell from her hands. Her eyes went wide in terror as the creature turned to face her ... The lips parted to reveal the flesh tearing fangs and the drooling saliva which flowed over the corners of her lips. His face was completely covered in hair ... the gray-brown hair of the wolf ... of the werewolf. 

     He snarled, then wailed again. His hands went up high as he started in for the kill. 

     "None but the silver bullet can kill a werewolf," she heard herself realizing as the claws tore her clothing from her body. She tried to turn and run but the claws dug into her flesh in long jagged, blood letting cuts. Then she was on the floor and he was on top of her. He felt his muscle enter her and he pumped explosively at her over and over again until that final moment of climax ... and at that moment of climax his fangs tore into her throat ... 

     She died with the scream and the blood gurgling in her throat, and her thighs quivering from the effects of that last climactic explosion.

Mark Trail, you old smoothie

What works for Mark and Cherry can work for you, too!

Ed Wood Wednesdays, Week 25: "The Cocktail Hostesses" (1973)

Rene Bond serves up alcohol -- and herself -- to drunken businessmen in A.C. Stephen's The Cocktail Hostesses.

"The only things that the United States has given to the world are skyscrapers, jazz, and cocktails."

-Federico Garcia Lorca

"To me, being grown-up meant smoking cigarettes, drinking cocktails, and dressing up in high heels and glamorous outfits."

-Lorna Luft

Blondes hiding their nipples: An SCA trademark.

Way back in 1998, satirical mock-newspaper The Onion published a brief but memorable article called "Taco Bell's Five Ingredients Combined in Totally New Way." The fictional story explained that the fast food chain was planning to use refried beans, ground beef, cheddar cheese, lettuce, and a corn tortilla in an "exciting new" menu item called the "Grandito." The company's CEO promised that this delicacy would be a complete departure from such previous Taco Bell offerings as the "Mexiwrap" and the "Zestito," both of which were (of course) made from the exact same five things.

After watching my fourth consecutive SCA Distributors softcore sex film from the early 1970s, I'm beginning to think of SCA as the cinematic equivalent of Taco Bell. Director Stephen C. Apostolof and writer Edward D. Wood, Jr. were essentially combining the same basic ingredients over and over again in slightly different ways. While Ed and Steve's first collaboration, Orgy of the Dead (1965), is a complete left-field oddity with bizarre characters and a spooky setting, their films from the 1970s tend to be more homogeneous, just a lot of pasty white Californians halfheartedly pretending to hump each other in blandly-hideous bedrooms, motel rooms, and living rooms, while drowsy "beautiful music" drones on in the background. Same actors. Same props. Same busty blonde on the poster, coquettishly hiding her nipples from our view. Even some of the same (basic) shots and dialogue reappear.

Larry Hagman: Farewell to my Friday night babysitter

Now that's sophistication: A musical J.R. Ewing whiskey decanter

J.R. makes MAD's cover

If you're an American born during a certain stretch of the 20th Century, there's a good chance that Larry Hagman was part of your life. He certainly was part of mine. 

Oh, sure, I Dream of Jeannie was one of those syndication staples I'd watch whenever I was home sick (or "sick") from school, but I preferred The Beverly Hillbillies, The Munsters, Gilligan's Island, and Mr. Ed. Even in the "normal guy with magic wife" category, Jeannie was second to Bewitched. As true TV junkies know, the real Hagman action occurred on Friday nights. My parents used to go out to eat pretty much every Friday night and leave me and my sister at home with a babysitter until we were old enough to look after ourselves for a few hours. 

Either way, in the early-to-mid 1980s, our television set -- like those of many Americans -- was tuned to CBS at that time every week. That was when the Tiffany Network aired its one-two punch of The Dukes of Hazard and Dallas, those totally-accurate-I'm-sure depictions of Southern life. Dukes was definitely pitched at a child's level. I may not have understood what "marijuana" or "moonshine" were when I was a kid, but I knew it was bad if Roscoe or Boss Hogg would plant either one of those items in the General Lee. And, besides, good old Waylon Jennings was always there to explain everything that was happening, had happened, and was about to happen in each episode. 

Dallas, on the other hand, was all but entirely beyond my ken. What did I know about power struggles in the cutthroat oil industry, let alone infidelity or alcoholism? Not too damned much, that's what. But I tuned in every week anyway. Maybe it was Jerrold Immel's majestic theme song or all those shots of shiny, mirror-like skyscrapers in the opening credits which drew me in. 

But what kept me watching, more than any other factor, was Larry Hagman's performance as that grinning, glad-handing rascal, J.R. Ewing. Hagman's character was obviously having a ball being as greedy and selfish as he possibly could be, and that's something even a kid could understand. Come to think of it, I probably liked Boss Hogg every bit as well as, if not more than, those pesky Duke boys.

The precioussssss.....

One further J.R. Ewing memory: every Christmas Eve, my father would take me around to various delis and bakeries in the Flint area to pick up supplies for our traditional holiday meal. He'd always stop by the comic book store and let me pick out a few oldies from the racks. 

Being a budding "comedy nerd," I immediately headed for the back issues of MAD from the 1970s and 1980s so I could fawn over the artwork of Mort Drucker, Sergio Aragones, Angelo Torres, Sam Viviano and more. On one of those trips, I picked up MAD #223 (June '81) with a Viviano caricature of Hagman on the cover and a five-page, Drucker-illustrated Dallas parody called "Dull-Us" inside. I still have that issue today. 

On another one of those Christmas Eves, my dad and I stopped at a deli which was selling a particular trinket whose very existence boggled my still-developing mind: a J.R. Ewing whiskey decanter which played the Dallas theme song from its base. A quick Google search reveals that this particular decanter, the only officially-sanctioned Dallas product of its type, remains a popular Ebay item. If you haven't decided what to get me for Christmas 2012 and you have an extra $120 laying around, you could do worse.