tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90069166913256218712024-03-15T19:59:36.267-04:00OTIS (Odd Things I've Seen)Official site of author J.W. Ocker chronicling his visits to oddities of nature, art, culture, and history, as well as life in between the oddities.J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07550697553375558251noreply@blogger.comBlogger1132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-81070048655929846092023-12-26T16:33:00.003-05:002024-02-09T21:25:31.255-05:00Welcome to OTIS! <div class="separator" style="clear: both;">My name is J.W. Ocker. And this is my website. OTIS is a chronicle of my <a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#">visits to the unusual</a>...oddities of nature, art, science, and culture. I also <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/p/books.html" target="_blank">write books</a> and party on my <a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#">Facebook Page</a>, <a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#">Twitter</a>, and <a href="https://draft.blogger.com/#">Patreon</a>. Reach out to me at ockerjw@gmail.com or to my agent <a href="https://www.tridentmediagroup.com/agents/alexander-slater/" target="_blank">here</a>. </div><div>
<div><hr /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/p/appearances.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="640" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2syMy2FOB-kkrr38zh9N5PpoXZZQ1vXcsoX_l6ee3Cc7QfbURuiffbMYiclYVD5eXopgxu3AjltVML9IdpZPh1fF_WBDtrfOs2xku2GGvfzyf3mGoJjNTGP0vvsFIXPqmyllEDW_4xxhnmMJ7w5uo39X3Uw80R_-DR2enCXVVCbIdsh80YSsbpiXAfO_W=w640-h418" width="640" /></a></div></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/p/appearances.html" target="_blank">Meet Me in Person...If You Dare</a></b></span><br />I get lonely. So I go out in public and give talks and do signings. Come make me less lonely. If you can't see me in person, I also do a few virtual appearances. So we can hang virtually... </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/killing-christmas-in-salem.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="583" data-original-width="800" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOK0U7c9RjIpBO3KJpnw8mMgejJq-qffSoeZ__7jjw-W64s8fbXEMunMBO0_2-cclGRPidYAiCSB8E_ByQggJNk4CxBOC1fU0NUiwzemp-dcRcCRp_ui5sUYq3oC8oz6dnEWrnhs5PYAjUJWB33oOnAuVVRI5QhCoB_SjZHOGWHT1yOu29cOJQiZHHOHRF/w640-h466/2023-12-25%2013.37.06.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/killing-christmas-in-salem.html" target="_blank">Killing a Christmas in Salem</a></b></span><br /><i>December 26, 2023: </i>We did it. Christmas is no more. Vanquished. What was once peace on earth and cozy vigils for Santa are now stacks of flattened cardboard on back porches, dead trees on curbs, and so many plastic gift cards in pockets. It’s time to take the set down...<div><br /></div><div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/its-christmas-time-jack-skellington.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="800" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9McAmjnLp9Y40hW53F6SiwZZv8_aBJHn3V1GA7tNEMpdNITqoqFrig6bg7hNI8_uZNsBl5U0cRkxSqRHnrT_2G3ej6E2LJ5ZR0-ixI68JfqH4-UZQZJ_YQUOrycWdjZJ0LTYXLSfRu1bQQHEv9MkM0r4dv5e9KjcTxx1P3JxJ8lYmLXMcc5iStL-v0aNs/w640-h468/2021-01-18%2014.04.09-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/its-christmas-time-jack-skellington.html" target="_blank">It's Christmas Time! [Jack Skellington Cackle]</a></b></span><br /><i>December 22, 2023: </i>A strange thing has happened to the concept of time for me in this, my first ever anti-Christmas season. Wait a minute. Anti-Christmas. Antichrist-mas. Whoa. Is it too late to rename this blog?...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/bleary-christmas-lalas-litle-nugget.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvGBV-VTct3Z95FYZnw6MCOD8XJtcrFTzGA6oYfpNBkHntBwpGZzcIKlfWwQdZqBWbbAhQfFOaMrsmHoBW7JnNqn2WwZkWbf4nRS01ZeiT6GsFfco9wp-kcHfZvMGh7JipNhu7HRkKIqH8pXM6RVFa0youPvHkAYn7eHbg_3AZPwR4sbREUYFswI-_zD_/w640-h480/2023-11-08%2022.19.54.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/bleary-christmas-lalas-litle-nugget.html" target="_blank">Bleary Christmas: Lala's Little Nugget</a></b></span><br /><i>December 17, 2023: </i>A year-round Christmas-themed dive bar in Austin reminded me that Christmas is the booziest season for a reason...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/the-cult-of-christmas.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7eavAsWHxdvjEzZteVy_td9s1NtkV6cn636Rgvh6oZ-EVqKHL_osuD2HTWPaYK0BbmNLqlfdA4iHzL6GXhEfRFk_cN6WbyPs8IN_zTOLm3e2GShvC2d7j9YwXxHEmknKokihVseVb8aatcJP1SrYQh2p6n2HUhPaonVKRXrdj6sPVsPw-0oixJH6O8c1j/w640-h480/404322540_675520921230193_2980726273996359396_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/the-cult-of-christmas.html" target="_blank">The Cult of Christmas</a></b></span><br /><i>December 15, 2023: W</i>orking on a book about cults answered a question I’ve always had: Why do Christmas movies always depict the saving of the holiday or the changing of a person to accept the holiday?...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/dark-christmas-trees-are-great-metaphors.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAByKJ_0OZQ9TmE_tmEkziV7Q_5ZR_aK3dyoisLNcPfnS2Pf7abg2rNARtRtZgQCQyjdzqZ5MHbIeJ9UTMDLMIOZTcNlCUuHgUIvCqvtk-rjuVu-RV0LDovuTWIdJxn0hR38MPmwqRpZO3QXepteHg5d89_DCUSSEG6AUQn8xK_sIKwcgSHSv9RTWMr5Bk/w640-h480/2023-12-11%2020.17.29.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><i><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/dark-christmas-trees-are-great-metaphors.html" target="_blank">Dark Christmas Trees Are Great Metaphors</a></i></b></span><br /><i>December 9, 2023: </i>I’ve grown to like my dark Christmas tree. It’s sad, sure. But it’s also a great metaphor. Dark Christmas trees are the only real Christmas trees...<div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/frosty-woe-man.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="640" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObJCDJXETzu05mx-ft_-ruBeEFmOZbR7q7EboggzeL5CDuAHeGVv5sSU8E6zyFbp9f0C91HjFWhpZEzalAEFzAgwTYf23UWtAYjQ9z8b6IFGShCpyQJz0lI_OiIJikfTwqim9B-54CkB2/w640-h424/Frosty+1_JWO.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><i><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/frosty-woe-man.html" target="_blank">Frosty the Woe-Man</a></i></b></span><br /><i>December 9, 2023: T</i>he bipedal bit of white space that is Frosty the Snowman is a metaphor for all that’s existentially atrocious about the human condition... <br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/a-christmas-carol-is-christmas-con.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kdKJ-S6q_DxIikX-bEFsgQ6d-FFYKSOHOeujgjdptCUNJ0OYybODC7iylRyE-Bk6FZGr95xeXSS12eCYW0bGqU18lA_IrlhzinYv02vKegZZgWfyPAjJjG54V85RGkIItZPcAqUTDkDrZSqjXCQ_lNLjO48Zdy00mseGutbcTz2FuT4l7zxWKd_tYEn1/w640-h480/2023-12-05%2022.42.55.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/a-christmas-carol-is-christmas-con.html" target="_blank"><i>A Christmas Carol</i> is a Christmas Con</a></b></span><br /><i>December 7, 2023: </i>I love <i>A Christmas Carol.</i> I think it’s one of the greatest stories in the language. But guess what? Its theme really has nothing to do with Christmas...</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/dreaming-of-wet-christmas_6.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3RX6pXXJsxkV9yXS2UFTpjd9OzK_TuYEvxXMp_hRWpL6NgvcwkIxoWmXnerTRdkEtM8r0HKSIPTJ7eHWVo1543xyPKP4wGDYUyZIE29M4YGaulVcnu3RsrIoR_UPXETaz3mwIp6vZvmMDuVquI6BJyIf7o7qoeuUbHhyY2HFkAFhIPczAaFvft53IdVZ/w640-h480/2023-12-03%2018.34.43-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/dreaming-of-wet-christmas_6.html" target="_blank">Dreaming of a Wet Christmas</a></b></span><br /><i>December 4, 2023: </i>Man, there is nothing better for the theme of this blog than dripping Christmas decorations<span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">—</span>soggy inflatables and weeping light strings and muddy blow molds and wilting wreaths and just absolutely ugly groundcover everywhere. This is fantastic...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/now-thats-christmas-fright-kingdoms.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDr4qGXe1KQ7nxSc_ASawzaF5BCg0UG-NC3y1U1_0spRSwekDX3Mx_Hdc57ezrOtgQfmh5CMv33OE41HTt_iu0wWMUKFp7LAW2dzOTyMGdFxdN2cjYJaZi3iHEV4bRyAdJQZRQPf1XKM4e-gNCYRlGTvTNYtihSwJ7A9kGtqmuh02bc6siG9ql1hpHQGa/w640-h480/2023-12-02%2019.13.25.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="color: #0000ee; font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/now-thats-christmas-fright-kingdoms.html">Now That’s Christmas: Fright Kingdom’s “Fright Before Christmas”</a></b></span><br /><i>December 3, 2023: </i>THIS is how you Christmas, folks. Blood and screams and jump scares just like the old-fashioned Christmases that Granny used to host...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/christmas-vs-halloween-st-nick-vs-old.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="850" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWuZc7YJnYy1Mz-pnMCMRVj8Aa-XkP8eOcQJfCo5JgyrsS20xXGuHD4dTj0gigXwmvAdip3E28G-ylHkNK71TqyQOlz_wFXfQTNKv8ZGrUXFFka73eQY5GrxfBRRGQy3ydRD-Q4iDEhAA/w640-h476/ChristmasHalloween+2__OTIS.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/christmas-vs-halloween-st-nick-vs-old.html" target="_blank">Christmas vs. Halloween: Saint Nick vs. Old Nick</a></b></span><br /><i>December 2, 2023: </i>Yesterday, in kicking off this Christmas villain of a project, I mentioned the underlying truths and falsehoods of Halloween and Christmas. I think we should compare them some more. So, as the serial killer said to the set of toes sticking out of the ground, "Let's dig deeper"...<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/i-am-war-on-christmas.html" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="800" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQj7tKw2j04ud3Wwzq1UPZ6tuue0jXts5hprlyl3n0lynH6IzYkuzgcS5-cZsFb_7R8wFdLCVr-7ZVxLd0NDDgk-mnd-a-ameuIEk0JPsa9a06k9J7AoEtbb0Dvf_plcZXTmJGxT3Lmf4o1W52z4f7iniuEBZ2YygpU-5AmeEYv4SbtchwUM-p_cnDNpo/w640-h436/IMG_9999.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/i-am-war-on-christmas.html" target="_blank">I am the War on Christmas</a></b></span></div></div><div><i>December 1, 2023: </i>Welcome to the OTIS Christmas Season Blog! I want to destroy the holiday. To red and green smithereens...<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07550697553375558251noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-9344736295008814482023-12-26T16:32:00.000-05:002023-12-26T16:32:38.909-05:00Killing a Christmas in Salem<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGKo5SRhAZOthQao4pyoxIFw1YkBwW0cLARvtOgE0sB1oQW4qih-KIzNakwk2RZWeEHEUql0Js1A8RP1DY-vhyphenhyphenm_eo9jvnV8q1RtXqZS6CH2zDJcwVRGA-6notUvtnTLi-eEsDHsM5tBG5NBreEodW_gU2EW2op-c8_h57q5BV3xMUakufY5MbEq0D1Nc/s800/2023-12-25%2021.50.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGKo5SRhAZOthQao4pyoxIFw1YkBwW0cLARvtOgE0sB1oQW4qih-KIzNakwk2RZWeEHEUql0Js1A8RP1DY-vhyphenhyphenm_eo9jvnV8q1RtXqZS6CH2zDJcwVRGA-6notUvtnTLi-eEsDHsM5tBG5NBreEodW_gU2EW2op-c8_h57q5BV3xMUakufY5MbEq0D1Nc/w640-h480/2023-12-25%2021.50.11.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>December 26, 2023 — </i></b>We did it. Christmas is no more. Vanquished. What was once peace on earth and cozy vigils for Santa are now stacks of flattened cardboard on back porches, dead trees on curbs, and so many plastic gift cards in pockets. It’s time to take the set down. <br /><br />My daughters and I spent the weekend watching kaiju movies, driving to oddities, playing games, and just generally enlivening the innards of this old Black House. We opened presents on the morning of Christmas Eve. With most of our traditions dashed, there was no reason to play by the rules anymore. It was a surreal moment. Both joyous and felt at a distance. With the continuity of the past decade and a half broken and being the only adult, I often felt like a detached observer. The only one sewing the present to the past (the Ghost of Christmas Past is the most important ghost). But the girls make everything fun, and we exchanged strange gifts, breakfasted on cookies and Pop Rocks, and then went to the theater to nap through the <i>Aquaman </i>sequel.<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGKH2rlZdAclYiY_4Oe_fXiE2fTscNb8l5Bb-C8Zya3t1MtG4tonZjoIs8XPhHzNdPGRoMy2sgIZzONaC3z22_bPfQ6dKPQPKJJz2dMVxNxQpcEQDAWop0PJnokvmUVQBSwVcU4aX5THiHttjbwMlMDp9Y59uKsBucdwS0-EeiUHIXyQJ4s6G6GA4FUdE/s800/2023-12-25%2013.37.06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="583" data-original-width="800" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRGKH2rlZdAclYiY_4Oe_fXiE2fTscNb8l5Bb-C8Zya3t1MtG4tonZjoIs8XPhHzNdPGRoMy2sgIZzONaC3z22_bPfQ6dKPQPKJJz2dMVxNxQpcEQDAWop0PJnokvmUVQBSwVcU4aX5THiHttjbwMlMDp9Y59uKsBucdwS0-EeiUHIXyQJ4s6G6GA4FUdE/w640-h466/2023-12-25%2013.37.06.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br />I spent Christmas day in Salem, watching horror movies with a friend, eating homemade pasta sauce, drinking Coke Zeros and whatever was brown on his liquor trolley, and talking about a vast range of topics like only friends can. At about ten o’clock, we said our goodbyes, and I walked out into the streets of Salem, a city that has harbored me well through the acid storms of the past couple years. <br /><br />It was empty. Everything was closed. The streets were wet with previous rains. The fog was thick. A layer of Christmas glowed atop the foundation of Halloween that is Witch City. I wandered the usual loop that I do in Salem—the Common, Essex Street, the Old Burying Point, a solo figure in a dark coat cutting through the fog.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioCzVr7bc9nssBo4JuTzvqRNPY_oHvoEb6rd-nEl1k1prI85uX4l660IaHTAXxUGf0ys-OiPM2TZWdPQ9xYkhUH0vGDFMV5MBmPgyBzjUo36hBj0dy-YGf_sFbI9XDVANDMU8jrT2wbg8urYHnx5R2XXzHqnd478UnIWHuX4yQC-tO10AdRaFy9st0q-_I/s800/2023-12-25%2021.44.14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioCzVr7bc9nssBo4JuTzvqRNPY_oHvoEb6rd-nEl1k1prI85uX4l660IaHTAXxUGf0ys-OiPM2TZWdPQ9xYkhUH0vGDFMV5MBmPgyBzjUo36hBj0dy-YGf_sFbI9XDVANDMU8jrT2wbg8urYHnx5R2XXzHqnd478UnIWHuX4yQC-tO10AdRaFy9st0q-_I/w640-h480/2023-12-25%2021.44.14.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>I found one place open: Nathaniel's Restaurant at the Hawthorne Hotel. “Friendly shadows,” as Kris Kristofferson spoke-sung. As good a place as any to say goodbye to the season. I slunk in just in time for last call. Last call for Christmas. <br /><br />What did I learn this year about being a Christmas villain? <br /><br />I learned that it’s a relatively easy stance to take. The holiday insists upon itself so much because it’s mostly made of that tissue paper diligent present-wrappers use. It blows away if you so much as breath a John Lennon line at it. It’s fragile because it’s fake. And, like most bullies, it’s mostly bravado.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08w2ByB9WOxX3Dj-cKkstdg69hYtVlziuoS_pgVJ98xe3FM-kOwbSEjwOQxt4um21f1DGFKuKo512YIiE9fQGkVjdHuxKTdekpDwWe-oXcoX4QizyuU5N9pvgN0bNElSKJ269bczhffUmXj0SXCkr8dYyqo4w_BcHHXAk4WOKwKm15pj_LWekGFL-lyRp/s800/2023-12-25%2021.45.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg08w2ByB9WOxX3Dj-cKkstdg69hYtVlziuoS_pgVJ98xe3FM-kOwbSEjwOQxt4um21f1DGFKuKo512YIiE9fQGkVjdHuxKTdekpDwWe-oXcoX4QizyuU5N9pvgN0bNElSKJ269bczhffUmXj0SXCkr8dYyqo4w_BcHHXAk4WOKwKm15pj_LWekGFL-lyRp/w640-h480/2023-12-25%2021.45.26.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>There were days I wouldn’t even have known it was the Christmas season were it not for the TV commercials trying to leverage holiday-lit living rooms full of veneer-shiny smiles and perfect and perfectly wrapped presents into meeting quarterly revenue goals. <br /><br />I learned that the break in “holiday break” is more important than the holiday. Some days off at the end of the year to take a deep breath to dive into the next. You don’t need it covered with garland and free shipping to do that. In fact, the less you obligations you have, the better you are for it. <br /><br />I learned that the recent advent of Krampus and other European monsters into our holidays might be a corrective to the saccharine, Hallmarky-markness of today’s Christmas. We have forgotten our hearts and will now have them yanked bloodily from our breasts.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5HOHCU07gIxjDYzEWLqFN0bCYZmnmqwldr9Mc3trtdn2If8LmqyqfXdrQOWhLaZ8jqHGZoIyh23JM_iesiVS8MJpPJEGi_atFZ0gN2Zpe2g_NyL2H9EeHjNJ4X_wahglGBmPwAwyhf8sY94Ah_aHg7s2qDix-hhAYcKZWfVaD2ojgCkaXp9eIjySKfUd/s800/2023-12-25%2021.46.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5HOHCU07gIxjDYzEWLqFN0bCYZmnmqwldr9Mc3trtdn2If8LmqyqfXdrQOWhLaZ8jqHGZoIyh23JM_iesiVS8MJpPJEGi_atFZ0gN2Zpe2g_NyL2H9EeHjNJ4X_wahglGBmPwAwyhf8sY94Ah_aHg7s2qDix-hhAYcKZWfVaD2ojgCkaXp9eIjySKfUd/w640-h480/2023-12-25%2021.46.26.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>I learned that a lot of people feel this way about the holiday. I probably got more encouragement for this project than any I’ve done before. Made me want to write a reverse-Scrooge story where the main character starts off all holly-ridden and jolly-diseased, and ends up as a valiant antihero so evolved above the holiday that he seems like an alien monstrosity. And you’re happy for the transformation. Like Ben drinking himself to death in John O’Brien’s <i>Leaving Las Vegas</i>. <br /><br />It certainly helped that my family has dwindled drastically over the past two years. That marginalized Christmas a lot. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHaGgH-ZiWDB02FCArd7n-3o3eqafuQ-tr1D3-OXOVOJavqD1PiS8DxGh-ZtpNrzccN2fhtMLoK0m_0JyZNJVzpHIHeM8sX0LyNcESW1m9gkfWci36ZhJegaRrDpPNuahq5n1Mxsks2NIj1zyfi_uHoS1Hzr12Ebm-99v_6vBfB6dAuBIwCcc-B73RybHi/s800/2023-12-25%2021.46.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHaGgH-ZiWDB02FCArd7n-3o3eqafuQ-tr1D3-OXOVOJavqD1PiS8DxGh-ZtpNrzccN2fhtMLoK0m_0JyZNJVzpHIHeM8sX0LyNcESW1m9gkfWci36ZhJegaRrDpPNuahq5n1Mxsks2NIj1zyfi_uHoS1Hzr12Ebm-99v_6vBfB6dAuBIwCcc-B73RybHi/w640-h480/2023-12-25%2021.46.11.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />It also helped that Heat Miser was on my side. No white Christmas to melt me. My lawn stayed as wet and brown all season as a 1980s paneled basement after a flood. Central New England, you can blame me for the psychic projection that kept Christmas dull, dripping, and bedraggled. <br /><br />Finally, I do want to thank everyone who, despite my open curmudgeonry, still reached out to check on me or wish me a Merry Christmas on Christmas day. I had more texts and emails like that than the past five years combined. People are great. Even if there is a surplus of them. <br /><br />Still, bah humbug, everybody. We shouldn’t forget that just because Christmas is over. Bah humbug should live in our hearts year-round.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibq_AUBPuBGkMSLp9U-46_tCJwO9iZcExIth7RQb3ojrcj176PRqLeBQFKjrC2zGSXLWmqwqcXXvTb6hV1cVi3TXq9raLx1i7u0GfZBBJXwipONIgiGaprjzMwq40EHT3zq7N4vfkWHmGCqJn_bLzBhji1D_DV99InjSEo-5jiix7-b4-yV3njqR-LxIQ8/s800/2023-12-25%2021.49.41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibq_AUBPuBGkMSLp9U-46_tCJwO9iZcExIth7RQb3ojrcj176PRqLeBQFKjrC2zGSXLWmqwqcXXvTb6hV1cVi3TXq9raLx1i7u0GfZBBJXwipONIgiGaprjzMwq40EHT3zq7N4vfkWHmGCqJn_bLzBhji1D_DV99InjSEo-5jiix7-b4-yV3njqR-LxIQ8/w640-h480/2023-12-25%2021.49.41.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-XWPafVqwKjznhmBhRMtQwrM6UhoiD6uR6G2s0uFuaU0-MfE46P9aJyZdD0Ylj3hdMBs9vRVXNsXZ-YFtNhHNc6Sh2m-6Z_xxTCWIa-FGT9sZ__vcFnK2O5BCQbHM0f3GYjJWWqSpWUJnAITci9ByG-B1wGA7IQc8xoYwKrpxAEZ_nQteyT-EOxnlmBM/s800/2023-12-25%2021.56.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-XWPafVqwKjznhmBhRMtQwrM6UhoiD6uR6G2s0uFuaU0-MfE46P9aJyZdD0Ylj3hdMBs9vRVXNsXZ-YFtNhHNc6Sh2m-6Z_xxTCWIa-FGT9sZ__vcFnK2O5BCQbHM0f3GYjJWWqSpWUJnAITci9ByG-B1wGA7IQc8xoYwKrpxAEZ_nQteyT-EOxnlmBM/w480-h640/2023-12-25%2021.56.21.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-16606854133899223872023-12-22T10:16:00.000-05:002023-12-22T10:16:36.332-05:00It’s Christmas Time! [Jack Skellington Cackle]<div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2Hq35BHFF-RoLkf4QMu32Tw7pt6i-2ebh14pxI-VV-oD-yAtUxA8iGOlJDoDQd3y6d1ay-pbJFSqIvHS1R2ZGZL0Al696HKX4eZLqnN1NfScy39pyk5Hy4K_FLfdOOguFuYJfH2BxW9k7RgvlwRxjoUcfn2R-FjFrxZT19jY0scKfdx2GDoQtOtuUx2Z/s800/2021-01-18%2014.04.09-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="800" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ2Hq35BHFF-RoLkf4QMu32Tw7pt6i-2ebh14pxI-VV-oD-yAtUxA8iGOlJDoDQd3y6d1ay-pbJFSqIvHS1R2ZGZL0Al696HKX4eZLqnN1NfScy39pyk5Hy4K_FLfdOOguFuYJfH2BxW9k7RgvlwRxjoUcfn2R-FjFrxZT19jY0scKfdx2GDoQtOtuUx2Z/w640-h468/2021-01-18%2014.04.09-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i><br /></i></b></div><b><i>December 22, 2023 — </i></b>A strange thing has happened to the concept of time for me in this, my first ever anti-Christmas season. Wait a minute. Anti-Christmas. Antichrist-mas. Whoa. Is it too late to rename this blog? <br /><br />I sometimes remember the Christmas seasons past that I loved as a panicky series of rapid moments that quickly disappeared like time was running at the speed of Santa’s sleigh—trying to get through the final, sloggy workdays of the year to get to Christmas break, frantically making all the plans you need to enjoy those days off, hoping to fit all the requisite traditions in on top of those plans, finishing the long list of errands that Christmas has become, and all while the gameshow clock ticks inexorably down to the final, ugly buzzer. <br /><br />And when you finish it all…it all is finished. Time to get back to our normal, stressful, tinsel-free existence. <br /><br />One day, you’re pushing off all your work responsibilities to after the holidays with a full-body sigh of relief, the next thing you know, it’s the saddest day of the year: January 2, when there are no more holidays to look forward to for months and everything you put off in the latter half of December comes rushing back a hundredfold into your mewling new year. <br /><br />But now, for me, with few of those pressures, time has just…ticked. Regular. Like a metronome. It’s that oft-used scene in movies and TV where the main character is static while everybody else in the frame is speeding around in a blur. <br /><br />I feel like I use that metaphor a lot in my writing. <br /><br />Even during the Halloween season, I’m acutely aware of time passing—how long it’s been since my last OTIS post, if I’m timing the foliage right for my road trips, awaiting the sweater days, picking pumpkins to maximize time with my jack-o-lanterns before they rot, keeping an eye out for when the stores start switching their shelves to Christmas shtuff. Counting down to the last minute of the town-mandated trick-or-treat window. <br /><br />This time, this Christmas, I’m not. I guess that’s because I’m not luxuriating in the holiday. And I’m not trying make it the “hap-hap happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye.” <br /><br />I feel like I’m more ready for a new year than in years past. Mostly, that’s because the past few years have been devastating. 2021 was awful. 2022 was even worse. 2023 beat them all by being the most wretched year of my life. In my New Year’s celebration, you shatter the ball to the ground, not slowly drop it. <br /><br />But, maybe, for the first time ever, January 2 will be a celebratory day for me. No more Christmas and some really bad years behind me. Or it could just be the beginning of a year to top all the previous in horror. Yay. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">It’s now a pretty deep wound, it penetrates to the soul,</div><div style="text-align: center;">A mineshaft full of dead canaries and coal.</div><div style="text-align: center;">I’m not real sure how I’ll make it through the year, though</div><div style="text-align: center;">That’s the same thing that I said a year ago.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-45242883107790795572023-12-17T07:59:00.000-05:002023-12-17T07:59:03.509-05:00Bleary Christmas: Lala’s Litle Nugget<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlMnehL2K8_oEf91Ujl_2EipJVCJ6b_5hJeqMjCsqnR-aJK9Bm-hB9trevouBtJWnNsvt1fBIm3trJEId0gemBCfJxTH_rlx4MaScujUwvvHC17MRUStkQEHWMw5uvnX19VGvVFJrgKltcbo6rjsS-HBKinCA6HJWMeOnjRI2VOF8LzFDWzdZfR8uzKfNK/s800/2023-11-08%2023.24.51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlMnehL2K8_oEf91Ujl_2EipJVCJ6b_5hJeqMjCsqnR-aJK9Bm-hB9trevouBtJWnNsvt1fBIm3trJEId0gemBCfJxTH_rlx4MaScujUwvvHC17MRUStkQEHWMw5uvnX19VGvVFJrgKltcbo6rjsS-HBKinCA6HJWMeOnjRI2VOF8LzFDWzdZfR8uzKfNK/w640-h480/2023-11-08%2023.24.51.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah, Christmas. </td></tr></tbody></table><i><b><div><i><b><br /></b></i></div>December 17, 2023 — </b></i>I was in Austin the other week, having BBQ at an extremely Texas-feeling restaurant with a friend. We were discussing how Austin’s fabled weirdness seemed to be fading. Well, not fading. Becoming more commoditized, corporate, synthetic. She decided to take me to see some old-school Austin weirdness to show me it still existed, although she caveated it with, “Unfortunately, the timing is a little off for it.” <br /><br />After dinner, she took me to Lala’s Little Nugget, a hole-in-the-strip-mall bar in the north part of Austin decked out with more Christmas than the Manhattan Macy’s. Reinder on the roof, Santa and snowman murals, string lights everywhere, ornaments dangling from the ceiling (some of which were wired to lower when a bathroom door opened). And it was all vintage. Like, various decades vintage.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gMGidrnMjVoq6ClbavAwUaK4XJj4a3znGuG-FhCmmV-UvcplugnV0rWHk6AbDUcb7ivtT1qeBhZBjNEswl03w8LIgSGCtH8wnA7_KYEuGkqsVT3g88DoqLS0sDee58PP7My8JkLgut4D_1trUo5J0czp0mudA97rySp0yAyQW1OTDwplBy198RssXUVz/s800/2023-11-08%2022.19.54.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gMGidrnMjVoq6ClbavAwUaK4XJj4a3znGuG-FhCmmV-UvcplugnV0rWHk6AbDUcb7ivtT1qeBhZBjNEswl03w8LIgSGCtH8wnA7_KYEuGkqsVT3g88DoqLS0sDee58PP7My8JkLgut4D_1trUo5J0czp0mudA97rySp0yAyQW1OTDwplBy198RssXUVz/w640-h480/2023-11-08%2022.19.54.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>“For a dive bar, they really decorate this place up,” I said, gazing around at the small, dark area inside that somehow seemed more North Pole than North Pole. <br /><br />“That’s the thing,” my friend said. “It’s always decorated like this.” <br /><br />Lala’s was started in 1972 by a woman named Frances Lala. There are a few stories for why it’s always Christmas, never winter in that Texas bar. One is that she just didn’t feel like going through all the work of taking down the decorations one year. Another story is that she did it out of spite against a husband that left her on Christmas Eve. Yet another story is that her child died on Christmas Eve. Yet another another story is that she simply just loved Christmas that much. The most resonant tale, perhaps, and thereby certainly false, is that she went over-the-top with her decorations for a son who was returning from the Vietnam War, a son who never came home, so she never took Christmas down. The latter tale inspired a song called <i>Jesus and Elvis</i> by a local musician that was covered by Kenny Chesney in 2016.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjfiQD_mawyC-2GynAB56jLyso9uw5PmL1seabNuSV4oDDqnTmiWCS68Jox9Wq-y0-oD2mCHK4Fy8FDCkXVTyIdGlvrPqliOpbzgsijwWFFBP3s7Lz0OpYGmfx7DXG494BBNmOTZr2ukd700Dv-1QqELyQa3ssPv73sw0Y_eEXi1GPx_gQUiwnCr9YJeN/s800/2023-11-08%2022.25.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjfiQD_mawyC-2GynAB56jLyso9uw5PmL1seabNuSV4oDDqnTmiWCS68Jox9Wq-y0-oD2mCHK4Fy8FDCkXVTyIdGlvrPqliOpbzgsijwWFFBP3s7Lz0OpYGmfx7DXG494BBNmOTZr2ukd700Dv-1QqELyQa3ssPv73sw0Y_eEXi1GPx_gQUiwnCr9YJeN/w640-h480/2023-11-08%2022.25.58.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div> <br />Impressively, Lala was never one for setting the record straight. And whatever the real reason, you can’t ask her, because she sold the bar back in 2015 and then died a couple years later. The new owners, a management corporation, decided to keep that bit of Austin weird. And not just to keep it, but to franchise it. Plans were recently announced for a second Lala’s to open in south Austin in 2024. It’ll be called Lala’s South Pole.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPLYBwK0lnY24brcX7pCNdQRzECZeJQK7Vr2C3f6Dxu_koU9BNEBVBbQopiNemMFY3o-Oc6kgUz-w3WszX83XlTL0o5lzD3cTUAfgpwo0Q4z0J77I4UXwuD5VhbW9wEGNZ6y0Ko9PsK_YQXEs12P41hyaEKF8lKA58_euWuxbhTxfXsQeWk5bKOS2puzU/s800/2023-11-08%2022.26.00-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPLYBwK0lnY24brcX7pCNdQRzECZeJQK7Vr2C3f6Dxu_koU9BNEBVBbQopiNemMFY3o-Oc6kgUz-w3WszX83XlTL0o5lzD3cTUAfgpwo0Q4z0J77I4UXwuD5VhbW9wEGNZ6y0Ko9PsK_YQXEs12P41hyaEKF8lKA58_euWuxbhTxfXsQeWk5bKOS2puzU/w640-h480/2023-11-08%2022.26.00-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>While at the bar, we ran into Mallory O’Meara, a nonfictionist out of Los Angeles who wrote <i>The Lady from the Black Lagoon</i> and the James-Beard winning <i>Girly Drinks</i>. I run into her every five years, it seems like. In 2013 in Providence when I was covering the <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2013/08/head-and-shoulders-among-his-peers-hp.html" target="_blank">H.P. Lovecraft bust unveil</a> for <i>Poe-Land</i>. In 2019 at Storyfest in Westport, Connecticut, where we were on a panel with Grady Hendrix, Paul Tremblay, and Stephen Graham Jones, and now 2023 in a Christmas-themed pub in Texas. <br /><br />Anyway, much like the spookiness of <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/now-thats-christmas-fright-kingdoms.html" target="_blank">Fright Kingdom’s The Fright Before Christmas</a> event blunted the worst parts of Christmas for me, so did a couple of rum and cokes and sticky tables to the strains of clacking pools balls and jukebox tunes. It’s a good reminder that Christmas is the booziest season for a reason.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_iuNStUV8iHwoi09juqC1Ke9rfAxS3WfFW-LOkrsU3WLI1XD5o31mUJGPWzUw7YBHIdywvDUNU5GJIOlx4ScrFCoaJHbsH9My6OmGdkxJT9BVdTm091C2w-l8jYSHzfKhfJKloLwh-2WSVSdfEiaeCvc2JPSos6OiKpglWBU1smZjuLw9JHfRzFpoJk-/s800/2023-11-08%2023.23.58-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1_iuNStUV8iHwoi09juqC1Ke9rfAxS3WfFW-LOkrsU3WLI1XD5o31mUJGPWzUw7YBHIdywvDUNU5GJIOlx4ScrFCoaJHbsH9My6OmGdkxJT9BVdTm091C2w-l8jYSHzfKhfJKloLwh-2WSVSdfEiaeCvc2JPSos6OiKpglWBU1smZjuLw9JHfRzFpoJk-/w640-h480/2023-11-08%2023.23.58-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-77535379195758442922023-12-15T00:02:00.004-05:002023-12-15T00:16:10.985-05:00The Cult of Christmas<p><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_OMl505-tM/TPXOXykPbhI/AAAAAAAAFLo/KD8BtBRtBZU/s640/ICE+Grinch+8_OTIS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="428" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_OMl505-tM/TPXOXykPbhI/AAAAAAAAFLo/KD8BtBRtBZU/w640-h428/ICE+Grinch+8_OTIS.jpg" width="640" /></a></i></b></div><b><i><br />December 15, 2023 — </i></b>For the past year I’ve been working on
a nonfiction book called <i>Cult Following </i>about various strange
and disturbing cults. It’ll be out autumn 2024. I bring it up here because,
like with all my book projects, I start looking at life through the lens of whatever
research I’ve recently done. Which means that this year, I’m sometimes looking
at Christmas through the lens of cults. Sounds weird, but it answered a question
I’ve always had: Why do Christmas movies always depict the saving of the
holiday or the changing of a person to accept the holiday?<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like Ernest has to save Christmas. But he only has to get scared
stupid on Halloween. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhL4upPjACJULJcuuOhX42G372yeuc3DrEoDnQaXnG6XasMKsUg2TysD8KzEDyCTXtuVKMmctI-EB5jXaBg4iSk5hcuPNnBXwJP1v7vrlfp6nYdVLylt2ML5otldpyQTK45WNlvREocAm/s640/Christmas+Oddity+5__OTIS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhL4upPjACJULJcuuOhX42G372yeuc3DrEoDnQaXnG6XasMKsUg2TysD8KzEDyCTXtuVKMmctI-EB5jXaBg4iSk5hcuPNnBXwJP1v7vrlfp6nYdVLylt2ML5otldpyQTK45WNlvREocAm/w640-h480/Christmas+Oddity+5__OTIS.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">And George Baily wasn’t allowed to end a disappointing life
at its nadir. He was supernaturally forced to change his heart. Like the
creator of the universe had to intervene and send a dopey wingless angel.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the movies either Christmas is always in trouble of not
happening or people aren’t allowed to experience negative emotions during the holiday.
Just the sheer amount of Christmas movies with those two premises is suspicious
to me. That’s how you do propaganda. And brainwashing. Driving the same message
over and over and over again into people’s soft cerebellums.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But why? Why these two plots?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I found that cults are defined by about half a dozen rules.
Two of them are relevant here. First, the cult must be predicated upon some urgent
and imminent catastrophe. Armageddon. Nuclear war. The end of the world. The appearance
of UFOs. That’s why cult leaders often announce near-term dates for these
events. It lends exigency and reality to their teaching. Convert now or be
doomed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So Christmas needs to be saved. Because Santa is in jail or kidnapped by Jack Skellington or kids
don’t believe anymore or whatever the million other things that threaten Christmas in
the movies (it’s such a fragile thing, this delicate nest of thin lies that is
Christmas). Christmas is about to end. Join the cult or else.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Halloween is never in trouble. Nor is Easter. Arbor Day. The
Fourth of July. Thanksgiving. Only Christmas is a constant damsel in distress. Or
drama queen, might be the better female-ish stereotype.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As to the other rule, in a cult, you’re told what to believe.
How to feel. Any deviation from that directive is dangerous to the cult. Any open-mindedness.
Any contrarianism. Any questioning. Cult leaders pull this off by various means—getting
members to sever family ties, cutting members off geographically, taking all their
money and possessions. You must conform or else.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn8uRaETcGpvYMJ_YWqf2Qn24khu_f-67jan7-nLmy0JHWcwdYHN4IwzpnFgxxZpnnRiPnp3H4aMpMJBzj5NS_cgwm_1yAOSLuyMAcQ-VNeTXWl3qAWnsKF5-HtufWFwB_UjrlNwKebEvxmRVFfRpy8KOifxKegBpNeraDedWC8u0AU_0PmlG4c6_A2Te2/s1440/404322540_675520921230193_2980726273996359396_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn8uRaETcGpvYMJ_YWqf2Qn24khu_f-67jan7-nLmy0JHWcwdYHN4IwzpnFgxxZpnnRiPnp3H4aMpMJBzj5NS_cgwm_1yAOSLuyMAcQ-VNeTXWl3qAWnsKF5-HtufWFwB_UjrlNwKebEvxmRVFfRpy8KOifxKegBpNeraDedWC8u0AU_0PmlG4c6_A2Te2/w640-h480/404322540_675520921230193_2980726273996359396_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">And that’s what Christmas is always trying to get us to do. Conform.
The Grinch just north of Whoville was forced to become a Who. Sam Elliot in
Prancer had to pretend that widowhood and starvation and poverty were fine
things to live with. Scrooge was doing okay with life. He was just doing him
(which, I just realized is a phrase that doesn’t work in the past tense), but he
had to be threatened with death if he didn’t align with the rest of the Christmas-loving
world. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Keep the status quo. Feel the same way as everyone else. Do
what’s always been done (and now you know why Christmas is maggoty with
traditions). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You can’t just let the Kranks be the Kranks, because that
threatens Christmas somehow. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the end, Christmas might just have more of Jonestown in it
than the jolly. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And, yes, I did write this entire piece so I could write
that last sentence. It needed to exist somewhere.<o:p></o:p></p>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-64194351841889379482023-12-11T21:52:00.000-05:002023-12-11T21:52:53.068-05:00Dark Christmas Trees are Great Metaphors<p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiI7I4Xw1v0M0mBlRgVJiDA01sjLREJ-0T7bVpS8fv7skAEpN6D2rEK1aX1NSPi7Gg_kYGgnJ-U0-FhLTRWdSHGFg434hausLgWi2lkfI8Y2tTOTBsvo3XYIT1nk3dvNH6dsjzGuFMwDZU4pik3roSQRBtjfAeLmulzdKqnOo8gtqidn8rLJz3go7pSht/s800/2023-12-11%2020.17.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoiI7I4Xw1v0M0mBlRgVJiDA01sjLREJ-0T7bVpS8fv7skAEpN6D2rEK1aX1NSPi7Gg_kYGgnJ-U0-FhLTRWdSHGFg434hausLgWi2lkfI8Y2tTOTBsvo3XYIT1nk3dvNH6dsjzGuFMwDZU4pik3roSQRBtjfAeLmulzdKqnOo8gtqidn8rLJz3go7pSht/w640-h480/2023-12-11%2020.17.29.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p><b><i>December 12, 2023 — </i></b>Despite the theme of this here blog, I
did actually decorate for Christmas this year. I mean, originally, I had
visions of turning my house into Scrooge’s—a Marley knocker on the front door
maybe, a ghost in chains and cash boxes flying from a window. A cauldron on my
roof with someone boiling in their own pudding, a stake of holly through their
heart. Tiny Tim in a broken puddle at the bottom of my doorstep. A Grim Reaper
pointing at a tombstone on the front lawn that reads, RIP JWO.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You know, decorating out of defiance. Or depression. Or
disgust. Like Clark Griswold stapling his flannel sleeve to the roof just to
avoid the family get-together of his own making. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Instead, I decorated. Mildly. Just the tree inside, and
outside a row of lights along the roof, a couple of reindeer in the yard. A
giant light-up Santa face on the wall like that thing Sean Connery rode in
Zardoz. Some blow molds that I just dropped into the dead leaves that I never
raked. Took about two hours to do it all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But why, right? In a season where I’m anti-season, dear
god-in-a-manger, why? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For the kids. Of course, for the kids. Intrinsically, but
also for some much-needed continuity in their lives. They’re not getting it
from anywhere else.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgibQoU60EQLVmFLOhyQGABhr69kYsWQLnqlHwfhUxXZgiJXxIK5-Ni9LtGXBPVvKweEgscEycuN4lvYakhEYqTh6FzcrT5nti5bOmHJIYxRecF18ioJz1vLN9GUvEdqZY7xynhX7rpeF379NSII5EM8KBhyzjfBGaUPTK5DEr-DsCyqNHk6KGMCwIOTHxP/s800/2023-11-29%2017.51.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgibQoU60EQLVmFLOhyQGABhr69kYsWQLnqlHwfhUxXZgiJXxIK5-Ni9LtGXBPVvKweEgscEycuN4lvYakhEYqTh6FzcrT5nti5bOmHJIYxRecF18ioJz1vLN9GUvEdqZY7xynhX7rpeF379NSII5EM8KBhyzjfBGaUPTK5DEr-DsCyqNHk6KGMCwIOTHxP/w480-h640/2023-11-29%2017.51.12.jpg" width="480" /></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But when the girls aren’t around, the Christmas tree is
dark. And while the outdoor lights are on a timer, those decorations
transmogrify when the house is empty. The roof lights become a string of bared
teeth. The Santa face, a severed trophy head. The grazing deer one stray hunter
from being plastic jerky. The blow molds? Well, blow molds are always a little
bit depressing already.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I did enjoy putting up our tree. Completely because it
was an activity with the girls. Watching them fight over their favorite
ornaments. Watching the five-year-old overweight the bottom branches and the
older two surreptitiously fixing them for her. Hearing them laugh as I try to
straighten the star at the top and failing miserably for half an hour.
Listening to the annual argument of whether we should set it to white lights or
color, blinking or static. The only sad part was me trying to toss away the
previously meaningful ornaments as mere hunks of metal and glass and plastic,
and my oldest trying to save them like an NHL goalie. Or just like a teenager
trying to save the memory of her family.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGWJwjegZsUJaYBJxfUb0r09FVEVidq6m_nznx5QPJIAu0ctLUDr3cHGyObtjnfbW0b-x_I5I28Ca4wz6JiFhgnvXf3i38rQoNBQGICGMNPPPLKk11MTNrxrV09-VhbOjNXG8SiWSoyqJCmqq6BfF4l0IL0TvUWxY1MrjwhbeDUGYr-Ov6z1mvVsEh7hS/s800/2023-12-11%2020.17.37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGWJwjegZsUJaYBJxfUb0r09FVEVidq6m_nznx5QPJIAu0ctLUDr3cHGyObtjnfbW0b-x_I5I28Ca4wz6JiFhgnvXf3i38rQoNBQGICGMNPPPLKk11MTNrxrV09-VhbOjNXG8SiWSoyqJCmqq6BfF4l0IL0TvUWxY1MrjwhbeDUGYr-Ov6z1mvVsEh7hS/w640-h480/2023-12-11%2020.17.37.jpg" width="640" /></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I’ve grown to like my dark Christmas tree. It’s sad,
sure. But it’s also a great metaphor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Battle against the winter and death dark all you want, keep
those lights burning as festively as possible through the shortening days and the
deepening snows (and New Englanders keep up Christmas lights for months after
December 25), but in the end, that glorious thing that has inspired countless songs
and been the centerpiece of revels for centuries…is just getting tossed onto
the curb or shoved back in the attic, depending on if it was a live tree or a
fake one.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now imagine that garbage truck rumbling down the streets of your
neighborhood, dead trees prostrate by the mailboxes, the whole thing a bizarre
reenactment of corpse wagons picking up plague victims, all soundtracked by <i>O
Tannenbaum</i>.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: center;">O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree,</div><div style="text-align: center;">We learn from all your beauty;</div><div style="text-align: center;">O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree,</div><div style="text-align: center;">We learn from all your beauty.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Your bright green leaves with festive cheer,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Give hope and strength throughout the year.</div><div style="text-align: center;">O Christmas Tree, O Christmas tree,</div><div style="text-align: center;">We learn from all your beauty.</div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If that doesn’t shake you from your sugar-plum coma, I don’t
know what would.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Instead, we should keep them dark and then throw them out to
the strains of <i>Fairytale of New York</i> (RIP, Shane…you should have been the name
on my Ghost of Christmas Future tombstone), while lifting a glass of whiskey
and promising ourselves that next year, we’ll do better. Although we know deep
down and long after the throat burn ceases, that we probably won’t.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dark Christmas trees are the only real Christmas trees.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Just don't tell my youngest that yet.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBz8iXb8146xjMMFhuz4X9p-VhhH3Hj78wh9ZnUYpGZ_N_ck6GnJu4TpeyXp6HMphKcAKrhYWEdVgyu4HsKSQOGjInlS1O-CGRarzCC2ihy-6WWQo9DChmWPuwQ5Wh1NgT0e9XXs7p5IKWQaiBIkcjrXcEHcG3BjZnGmZ_Bpwk9pk__RDx3VckNSnbSUf/s800/2023-12-10%2010.54.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="608" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBz8iXb8146xjMMFhuz4X9p-VhhH3Hj78wh9ZnUYpGZ_N_ck6GnJu4TpeyXp6HMphKcAKrhYWEdVgyu4HsKSQOGjInlS1O-CGRarzCC2ihy-6WWQo9DChmWPuwQ5Wh1NgT0e9XXs7p5IKWQaiBIkcjrXcEHcG3BjZnGmZ_Bpwk9pk__RDx3VckNSnbSUf/w486-h640/2023-12-10%2010.54.35.jpg" width="486" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-1762383033066926272023-12-09T00:46:00.003-05:002023-12-11T10:26:54.694-05:00Frosty the Woe-Man<p style="text-align: center;"><strong style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></strong></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-transform: none; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObJCDJXETzu05mx-ft_-ruBeEFmOZbR7q7EboggzeL5CDuAHeGVv5sSU8E6zyFbp9f0C91HjFWhpZEzalAEFzAgwTYf23UWtAYjQ9z8b6IFGShCpyQJz0lI_OiIJikfTwqim9B-54CkB2/s1600/Frosty+1_JWO.jpg" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 0.2em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="422" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObJCDJXETzu05mx-ft_-ruBeEFmOZbR7q7EboggzeL5CDuAHeGVv5sSU8E6zyFbp9f0C91HjFWhpZEzalAEFzAgwTYf23UWtAYjQ9z8b6IFGShCpyQJz0lI_OiIJikfTwqim9B-54CkB2/s640/Frosty+1_JWO.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">Is man no more than this?</td></tr></tbody></table><strong><em><br /></em></strong><strong><em>December 8, 2023 –</em></strong> Since I talked about my satanic glee at a <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/dreaming-of-wet-christmas_6.html" target="_blank">wet Christmas</a> earlier on this blog, it snowed again. At first, I took it personally, and I shook my fist at the sky and screamed "Khan!" at the top of my lungs. But then the thin snow covering dissipated by afternoon. That's twice in three weeks that's happened. Like Snow Miser is having a particularly tricky battle with his brother. But this is New England, and at some point it will snow. In which case, I will need to find a way to deal with it. Good thing there's <i>Frosty the Snowman</i>, an animated special that is cynical enough to ice any snow bunny.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtBTpf_45uVj8DYekvveK1xlhJg-bZ8dYtAGp85YJ17babNLK3KLmPzF_vc4Fg_Pn2tM5WrWpDaion22hyyvjUY1wWlrNnCcb3jmccaT5VlS7Bu_FwYXMM2A5CIfyjSngpUxc9P7Wfsrzb/s1600/Frosty+2_JWO.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="446" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtBTpf_45uVj8DYekvveK1xlhJg-bZ8dYtAGp85YJ17babNLK3KLmPzF_vc4Fg_Pn2tM5WrWpDaion22hyyvjUY1wWlrNnCcb3jmccaT5VlS7Bu_FwYXMM2A5CIfyjSngpUxc9P7Wfsrzb/s640/Frosty+2_JWO.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Based on a song popularized by Gene Autry in 1950, the same cowboy singer who introduced us to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and wrote <i>Here Comes Santa Claus</i>, the special tells the story of a magic hat that makes a snowman come briefly to life.<br /><br />Rankin-Bass released this cartoon adaptation of the song in 1969. Narrated (and sung) by Jimmy Durante, with comedian Jackie Vernon voicing Frosty, the story Christmases up the original not-really-Christmas song with Santa and decorations and such. It also gives the story a villain besides the snow-unfriendly sun. An evil, bumbling magician, to be specific.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUb8QCAjkbJ3ozA-mZNt-0JYGwsQWkqzaJUJXB8KIxTOpmMH768KvUh0EFCiKfkkPnxXN4MLxtqMzhsFSgKBfoEPP4cP9TqutWpgTlamY-sozie8K6d9xgUuF_6o4ktntxGf5gTXc2GZD/s1600/Frosty+3_JWO.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdUb8QCAjkbJ3ozA-mZNt-0JYGwsQWkqzaJUJXB8KIxTOpmMH768KvUh0EFCiKfkkPnxXN4MLxtqMzhsFSgKBfoEPP4cP9TqutWpgTlamY-sozie8K6d9xgUuF_6o4ktntxGf5gTXc2GZD/s640/Frosty+3_JWO.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />It seems like a happy story. Frosty keeps his hat. The magician is redeemed. The kids get a new friend. And it ends with Santa in a sleigh. However, if you pay attention to the story in the way that Christmas never wants you to pay attention to its stories, this animated special is an absolute bummer. <div><br /></div><div>And I love it even more, as a result. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because that bipedal bit of white space is a metaphor for all that’s existentially atrocious about the human condition. <br /><br />Like most childhoods, his first breaths of consciousness were full of enthusiasm, happiness, and wonder. And then, ten minutes later, everything turned to absolute peril when he realized that the world was an inhospitable place for such as him. Seriously, it was mere seconds and a bit of song refrain between “I am alive! What a neat thing to happen.” To “Uh-oh. Is there a thermometer around here?” It’s like the whole thought arc of the plummeting whale in Douglas Adams’ <i>The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy</i>.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid6szcDqDRjZWp1hLzxwkCR-WYWRH_7dMWtE5G-_LJoev0my6ocdDH_wpaZ0M3Hpn5Fn_Uy9TOI77pfqtlsTxwx49tzaSRPblufdVG7Uf6WQk3nQC5UqFaNJsvIc8i4hyGahq9JV8JzWk-/s1600/Frosty+4_JWO.jpg" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 0.2em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid6szcDqDRjZWp1hLzxwkCR-WYWRH_7dMWtE5G-_LJoev0my6ocdDH_wpaZ0M3Hpn5Fn_Uy9TOI77pfqtlsTxwx49tzaSRPblufdVG7Uf6WQk3nQC5UqFaNJsvIc8i4hyGahq9JV8JzWk-/s640/Frosty+4_JWO.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">Santa. Horrified.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>Eventually he did die. Death by greenhouse, in fact. A Sad little puddle reflecting the fiery red, poisonous poinsettias that surrounding him like blindly leering Triffids and mingling with the tiny tears of the little girl who loved him most.<br /><br />Of course, Santa Claus (who, as you know, speaks a fluent rabbit) saves the day and resurrects Frosty with a mere finger laid aside his nose (so to speak). And that, kids, is why some say we’ve made up God. Because life is short and wretched, and evil magicians want to steal our silk hat souls.<br /><br />In fact, in the original song, it’s even worse. There is no <i>deus ex machina</i> in a red suit and white beard. “Hurry on his way” is the euphemism used there for the end of Frosty, along with a vague eternal-lifey promise of being back some day.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwqfGeNSGgGvlJSs60nO_gaY7sKm91TP12FXZbIQF7-6EK7oOHRRhIZ5VbevzGK5Dn9sSbyOxpaR7C9Il2Tkm2NlOvfdpb5ISev3_Lq1hDROEqFdwODXx4A1Hzr3pSDenWK8rRs4CIi9w/s1600/Frosty+5_JWO.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="438" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwqfGeNSGgGvlJSs60nO_gaY7sKm91TP12FXZbIQF7-6EK7oOHRRhIZ5VbevzGK5Dn9sSbyOxpaR7C9Il2Tkm2NlOvfdpb5ISev3_Lq1hDROEqFdwODXx4A1Hzr3pSDenWK8rRs4CIi9w/s640/Frosty+5_JWO.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />The film dabbles with the whole problem of evil, as well, believe it or not. Professor Hinkle, the evil magician, didn't want Frosty to exist in the first place, and spent the whole movie trying to off him just as much as the warm weather did. However, had the magician not locked Frosty into the greenhouse to melt, Karen and Frosty might not have known of his eternal Christmas snow-ness after all. Thus, evil plays a part in God’s universal plan. Or, in the words of Professor Hinkle, “We evil magicians have to make a living, too."<br /><br />And just like that, Frosty becomes the saddest Christmas character of them all for me. Sure, Rudolph got made fun of, but that turned out OK. A prenatal Christ was rejected from every inn in town and had to start his short wretchedness in an animal trough, but he turned out OK, too. Minus the crucifixion bit. Frosty didn’t get a better life. He was allowed the bare minimum. He was allowed to live…sort of. The way he talked about the North Pole, it could easily have been his heaven. It's a place where all his worldly problems are supposed to be solved, after all. So the Santa God-figure appears to take Frosty to the heaven of the North Pole just so Karen and her friends don't have to face the fact that he might not have been more than frozen water, anyway.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhym4HbrH-d2MNZgLobtBqIUrLBjaS1Qw9U30Jy63hyerxwlN0jL0BMiXcAefo7idjiuLtsso4ht39HYPkIXQJZo1PPRP9v-VvhjCdhH0W27JOTKWSjnOw7KnQg88xwPE3u37tBN4BNql/s1600/Frosty+6_JWO.jpg" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 0.2em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqhym4HbrH-d2MNZgLobtBqIUrLBjaS1Qw9U30Jy63hyerxwlN0jL0BMiXcAefo7idjiuLtsso4ht39HYPkIXQJZo1PPRP9v-VvhjCdhH0W27JOTKWSjnOw7KnQg88xwPE3u37tBN4BNql/s640/Frosty+6_JWO.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">That's how I felt at the end, too.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Right, I know. I’m missing the moral of the story. In this case, I guess despite all the metaphysical turmoil on the part of Frosty, his response to it all was, “Let's run, and we'll have some fun before I melt away.” To me, though, the whole “enjoy life while you can” idea is salvage, not solution. Freefall is fun but not worth pancaking on the ground for.<br /><br />Now when it snows, I hope you interpret all those floating, individually unique building blocks of Frosty as representations of the misery of the human condition.<br /><br />That's all I've got for Mr. Snowman. Emmet Otter, you're next.</div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-29064070241553632082023-12-07T00:06:00.002-05:002023-12-08T11:50:38.515-05:00A Christmas Carol Is a Christmas Con<div style="text-align: center;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhblOD1Z-SC2LV2ZFCDOtlLA04PevDKlxWMd3lScpfKr_Lfu1yGb77bryubOr0BhnWOTOrpCm6IGj1LwCrfnEWN6u_NVET4luyLbGLeGBN8JlpeEaPXzKDBU4__mK3p-TxTPUZ762O664V07Pkd_43LZ3McZC5LotLN8RYQSlrwpyCPo6FP6SWg5X2WUs2/s800/2023-12-05%2020.53.00.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhblOD1Z-SC2LV2ZFCDOtlLA04PevDKlxWMd3lScpfKr_Lfu1yGb77bryubOr0BhnWOTOrpCm6IGj1LwCrfnEWN6u_NVET4luyLbGLeGBN8JlpeEaPXzKDBU4__mK3p-TxTPUZ762O664V07Pkd_43LZ3McZC5LotLN8RYQSlrwpyCPo6FP6SWg5X2WUs2/w640-h480/2023-12-05%2020.53.00.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i><br /></i></b></div><b><i>December 7, 2023 — </i></b>I love <i>A Christmas Carol.</i> I think it’s one of the greatest stories in the language. But guess what? Its theme really has nothing to do with Christmas. <br /><br />Wait, what? <br /><br />I mean, Charles Dickens, in his successful quest to become a beloved Christmas character himself, wrote a lot about Christmas. And in this particular story, he seems to try to make it so Christmas that the pages almost smell of pine needles and roast turkey and crinkle like wrapped presents. It’s set at Christmas—in fact, multiple Christmases across time. It’s organized like a holiday carol in staves instead of chapters. The word is on almost every page. The point is Christmas, the story insists. And insists. And insists. The point is Christmas. When Scrooge awakes after his visit with the final ghost, he says, “Heaven and the Christmas Time be praised for this!” <br /><br />But Scrooge can be forgiven for being wrong. On both accounts. After all, he had a rough night. <br /><br />For while Christmas does make a nice backdrop to the story and good plot structure device by Dickens, providing delightfully parallel stanzas, this story could have taken place at any time on Scrooge’s calendar. In April. Arbor Day. Breast Cancer Awareness month. The return of the McRib. <br /><br />I posit that Christmas isn’t important to the whole point of the story, which is Scrooge’s redemption. That <i>A Christmas Carol</i> is actually <i>A Christmas Con</i>.<br /><br />Scrooge changes not because of some magical Christmas miracle. Not because he was convinced of its worth as a holiday by four spectral debaters. He changes because he got the shit scared out of him by Death. He did a decent job of swiping left on Marley by calling him Colonel Mustard or whatever, and the nostalgia and insight/voyeurism of the other two ghosts touched his heart, for sure, but there’s a reason Dicken’s carol has that darkly robed cleanup hitter, and it’s not just the rule of three. Had this been a Halloween story, it would have taken only a single terrifying ghost to get Scrooge to buy turkeys and give raises. <br /><br />Christmas didn’t save Scrooge. It just, like it does every year, pretends to play a valuable role in our lives. Death saves Scrooge. <br /><br />It’s kind of a cheating way to learn the lesson, too. It’s a threat. Do this or die. Or worse, do this or die alone and then float through the air in torment wrapped in chains forever. Us humans love to do that, of course. Put Jesus in your ventricles or burn in the center of earth for all time. But Scrooge really got his own burial dirt tossed in his face. Before that night of ghosts, death was an abstract thing in some abstract future. Even Marley’s death did little to remind him of his own. He kept his partner’s name on the company sign without any semblance of morbidity. But then he got his own tombstone smashed so hard down his head that he promised on his knees to that Ghost of Christmas Future, “I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.” <br /><br />Scrooge’s joy was an attempt at salving intense fear. And fear is the best motivator of anything. <br /><br />Now, Christmas does have an actual important function in the story. I lied a little bit earlier. It’s important in that the story needed to be set amidst a time of national partying. That way Scrooge could be both literally asked to join the party by his nephew Fred, but also metaphorically by the ghosts. Christmas was a metaphor for participating in civil society. <br /><br />Which is fine. Except that it isn’t asking Scrooge to come as he is, but to participate in it on its own terms and demands. Scrooge says at the beginning of the tale to his nephew, “Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.” Nope. Society wasn’t having that. It demanded Scrooge conform. <br /><br />But that’s a whole different topic. <br /><br />Speaking of a different topic, I’ll leave you with a thought-starter: Why would the Ghost of Christmas Future be Death incarnate?<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cAJarxjUVaa0Mmt5y_w9OSb98M7vYiVvgZ1VMq8kEWflKSfM-w8zwC4j6wQmYKfbt1-gx8zcGvmIAXWhZQ3gPBZDjY-bxl1C922OHPsrI7xq32VnABNQclgImkcz7XmDBQuYb8kTygU5fFtEEbIwTZiWWEl_q5hiDqm0VwUN5vhKPY-MttYZrGD7anPm/s800/2023-12-05%2022.42.55.jpg" style="font-weight: 700; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cAJarxjUVaa0Mmt5y_w9OSb98M7vYiVvgZ1VMq8kEWflKSfM-w8zwC4j6wQmYKfbt1-gx8zcGvmIAXWhZQ3gPBZDjY-bxl1C922OHPsrI7xq32VnABNQclgImkcz7XmDBQuYb8kTygU5fFtEEbIwTZiWWEl_q5hiDqm0VwUN5vhKPY-MttYZrGD7anPm/w640-h480/2023-12-05%2022.42.55.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've half a dozen copies of <i>A Christmas Carol</i> in my library, and the one I pulled out <br />to peruse for this piece is apparently one I haven't opened in a long time, <br />possibly over two decades, based on this hand-drawn Christmas card dated 2001 <br />from someone I used to work with at a video store back then. <br />Talk about a Ghost of Christmas Past.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-42628277845979362222023-12-06T21:23:00.001-05:002023-12-08T21:24:25.193-05:00Dreaming of a Wet Christmas<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjOUMgIbc6FZbCqH4PRzWIBzWn4ylmJzL6_vnX0jqPv2wqfTCOO-oSHu3saQ1UreThizzqypQvTW2GusYvkAZxajILF-PmhgBWHq9Miy6JkRwVzEMihhYBk7nhpKF6Ui-nMoTeB9fApiAAf0KVdvb_Dcx3DR462ilXaszxikGR38dpV568-YRjlMXA8x2W/s800/2023-12-03%2018.34.43-1.jpg" style="font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjOUMgIbc6FZbCqH4PRzWIBzWn4ylmJzL6_vnX0jqPv2wqfTCOO-oSHu3saQ1UreThizzqypQvTW2GusYvkAZxajILF-PmhgBWHq9Miy6JkRwVzEMihhYBk7nhpKF6Ui-nMoTeB9fApiAAf0KVdvb_Dcx3DR462ilXaszxikGR38dpV568-YRjlMXA8x2W/w640-h480/2023-12-03%2018.34.43-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><b><i>December 4, 2023 — </i></b>So far December has been...rainy. November, too, although we had one morning of light snow cover the day before Thanksgiving that turned to fog by noon. Man, there is nothing better for the theme of this blog than dripping Christmas decorations.<br /><br />I mean, soggy inflatables and weeping light strings and muddy blow molds and wilting wreaths and just absolutely ugly groundcover everywhere. This is fantastic. Now that I’m a Christmas villain, I’ve been getting an absolute kick out of it and hope this dreary weather continues all month. I love that the sky is just unloading on all our carefully placed decorations (including mine, but that’s a different day’s topic).<br /><br />I also like having a new reason to love the rain. I love it in the Fall because it fits that season. The decorations of Halloween look even better thrashing about in the wind and the rain. I love it in the summer because it gives temporary relief from that stupid season. I love it in the spring, although I don’t’ have a pithy reason for that (April showers bring May flowers?). I’ve always hated rain in winter, though, because, here in New England, that should’ve been snow. And I love snow.<br /><br />I mean, one of the reasons I moved here was for white Christmasi. Back before my heart shrunk three sizes.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIjZ94rM0TtL4lokorrur04l-2jPDgQ6fImJjhWt325fWfYDihCXuAFtpjpDB3JOteJtk9gmR6ZPhjUEoL7unyZbQTkPGBQHD-_g9JyASaNMQs1Qcy00bHBNk31FCxgz2PLN04u_gPW79u5kzbxMJQsklBM7FEg1d8-1ZD_RMoU59oEjSkBPudhUzKUH1/s800/2023-12-03%2015.38.30.jpg" style="font-weight: 700; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIjZ94rM0TtL4lokorrur04l-2jPDgQ6fImJjhWt325fWfYDihCXuAFtpjpDB3JOteJtk9gmR6ZPhjUEoL7unyZbQTkPGBQHD-_g9JyASaNMQs1Qcy00bHBNk31FCxgz2PLN04u_gPW79u5kzbxMJQsklBM7FEg1d8-1ZD_RMoU59oEjSkBPudhUzKUH1/w640-h480/2023-12-03%2015.38.30.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />When I grew up in Maryland, white Christmasi almost never happened. But it was at least cold. Christmas looks best in white, but it can also pull off the bundled up look well, too. But a wet Christmas is an awful mood killer. Like Santa tore the sky open as he passed by the night before and didn’t care to fix it. Or regretted giving us all presents so he sent down a stormy chaser.<br /><br />I used to think the most depressing things you could think about was a hot Christmas. I did my undergrad in Florida, and just down the road from the campus was a year-round Christmas shop. They sold decorations with Santa in swim trunks, beaming behind sunglasses on jet skis. His sleigh pulled by dolphins. Palm trees covered in twinkle lights. However, I always broke north for home over Christmas break and never got to experience waking up in a pool of sweat on Christmas morn.<br /><br />But I’m thinking a hot Christmas is probably better than a wet one.<br /><br />Here’s hoping Rudolph slips on my clammy roof shingles.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-49457090688637620562023-12-03T15:52:00.000-05:002023-12-03T15:52:47.657-05:00Now That’s Christmas: Fright Kingdom’s “Fright Before Christmas”<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPd3P4xmvnRWEE2BkxY9stKSB5Qwj3zQKIi8glc_9kyZjnd2C4xzvyUG8DFewFziNkoI3Dq9VWhCEqoK9AXZ_Y_fLJc53SPsBk9gJQfEj4XblmcF_mKBLmbMxmT0S4CSqFDJwCbL4EE3cRNcG9XLFCrdMfEqbkjPaXXYJRFwsyTxya2TbxR6wWYFlmzOdv/s800/2023-12-02%2019.13.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPd3P4xmvnRWEE2BkxY9stKSB5Qwj3zQKIi8glc_9kyZjnd2C4xzvyUG8DFewFziNkoI3Dq9VWhCEqoK9AXZ_Y_fLJc53SPsBk9gJQfEj4XblmcF_mKBLmbMxmT0S4CSqFDJwCbL4EE3cRNcG9XLFCrdMfEqbkjPaXXYJRFwsyTxya2TbxR6wWYFlmzOdv/w640-h480/2023-12-02%2019.13.25.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>December 3, 2023 — </i></b>THIS is how you Christmas, folks. Blood and screams and jump scares just like the old-fashioned Christmases that Granny used to host. <br /><br />Quick refresher: Fright Kingdom is a Halloween haunt in my town of Nashua, New Hampshire. But it’s not just a Halloween haunt. It’s the best indoor Halloween haunt in all New England and probably most other states thrown in there, as well.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77GKQwkdwwKyeS0w9Dwvj4PM3sC5zFfTi9q8MO_WrpAdKQVjo744KpS4VhWQfgN5zB2Xfpr4MjKKicWoZDsGiDYKW1uwk0Iytz2825hmLeBvw081EP-4i2kGnQpcuCdUgSHcbF-_bq0-z2Uik4dD6kkQiQ0MuPwkBVygf4HtYLcJNTOXwlHzvVfr6DVkV/s800/2023-12-02%2017.51.15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi77GKQwkdwwKyeS0w9Dwvj4PM3sC5zFfTi9q8MO_WrpAdKQVjo744KpS4VhWQfgN5zB2Xfpr4MjKKicWoZDsGiDYKW1uwk0Iytz2825hmLeBvw081EP-4i2kGnQpcuCdUgSHcbF-_bq0-z2Uik4dD6kkQiQ0MuPwkBVygf4HtYLcJNTOXwlHzvVfr6DVkV/w640-h480/2023-12-02%2017.51.15.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />In December, it reopens for a single weekend with a Yuletide glaze over its October trimmings. They call the event the Fright Before Christmas. It's a beautiful chaos of Halloween and Christmas. Red and green lights strung over orange jack-o-lanterns. Fake snow falling on gargoyles. Psycho Kris Kringles with axes. Crazy elves with chainsaws. Killer snowmen. Mike Myers in a Santa hat. Krampus, Krampus, Krampus. <br /><br />Attending the Fright Before Christmas has become an annual tradition for me. As has the October version, of course. Actually, anytime Fright Kingdom’s doors are open, I find myself there. Hell, even when they’re not open. Owner Tim Dunne has been kind enough over the years to sometimes let me play Charlie Bucket to his Willy Wonka. I’m super-lucky to have a place like it a mere three miles from where I brush my teeth. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZUpY-Qj3igC1lD49JB6JwEe_izxKAV95-y5f4_btMXryio1xm0firIW9wqP_07GEpJxz1ubmALPPbfIRUNJxV2sgSoenQPGc6Gm74Na1iuISB6g1Feoi6s_Jyxe8LEv0_bop6iXqLag5MQb3YzMhN69ho-J0idv2aZa0J2s7AqdSxl4D5f-UoztG0ZJc/s800/2023-12-02%2018.08.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZUpY-Qj3igC1lD49JB6JwEe_izxKAV95-y5f4_btMXryio1xm0firIW9wqP_07GEpJxz1ubmALPPbfIRUNJxV2sgSoenQPGc6Gm74Na1iuISB6g1Feoi6s_Jyxe8LEv0_bop6iXqLag5MQb3YzMhN69ho-J0idv2aZa0J2s7AqdSxl4D5f-UoztG0ZJc/w640-h480/2023-12-02%2018.08.34.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />This year there were ten of us, most of whom had never experienced even the Halloween version of Fright Kingdom, so it was a blast watching them go through it. While we were at one of the staging areas of the haunts, one of my friends asked me, “Do you ever get tired of walking through here?” My answer was automatic. “No, it’s like walking through my favorite park at this point.” And, on further consideration, it really is. I just stroll through doffing my cap at this gory psycho diving at me from the ceiling and pointing finger guns at that maniacal clown jumping up at me through the stairs. Whistling “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” at the twenty-foot-tall animatronic ogre-thing. <br /><br />Afterwards we hung outside at the part of the haunt where all the venders are, fake snow falling around us, demons on stilts striding past bearing severed heads wrapped in Christmas lights, the smell of funnel cake and fried Oreos on the air. Like, if there were a bar at this place, I’d cozy up to it, tell the bar tender to throw a candy cane in a grasshopper for me, and just hang out in all that ambiance.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKKZlZ9DEa9vZhp2fQa4iAjn_N6MCz2KPymXrnoC5CSOcQCScmQqQ_ZwmKiHlMTsz0fH1JKbpata9gVKVhmeWHBjGJASi6YgYF5XLt1QqVRxConhfHOKptOPNxU6q0wqTTWQLxQed_LedfE4EaiM-Fw0XUlQt4jPBuovEvtbW1SEDJjL35fd7FcU76CXR/s800/2023-12-02%2018.08.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdKKZlZ9DEa9vZhp2fQa4iAjn_N6MCz2KPymXrnoC5CSOcQCScmQqQ_ZwmKiHlMTsz0fH1JKbpata9gVKVhmeWHBjGJASi6YgYF5XLt1QqVRxConhfHOKptOPNxU6q0wqTTWQLxQed_LedfE4EaiM-Fw0XUlQt4jPBuovEvtbW1SEDJjL35fd7FcU76CXR/w640-h480/2023-12-02%2018.08.17.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>And, I have to admit, in a year that I’m being hyper-critical of Christmas, it’s a relief to be able to have fun with the trappings. Like I don’t have anything against nutcrackers and jack frosts. It’s just the contortion of the holiday into something insincere and ulterior that drives me jingle bells, a situation that is apparently alleviated when you throw gingerbread ghouls and the ghost of Christmas future in the mix. You know, the bleeding honesty of Halloween pulling old Santa off his high reindeer. <br /><br />By the time you read this piece, it’ll be too late to go this year. But follow <a href="https://frightkingdom.com/?gclid=Cj0KCQiA67CrBhC1ARIsACKAa8RMJcAhaTgA1kWOHNN9XsBRzWADbhh5qWxd02LF-1NU9oUOGfeVdLEaArbWEALw_wcB" target="_blank">its website</a> for other events. Like Halfway to Halloween this summer. You’ll see me there. At the bar. Margarita garnished with a gummy eyeball in my hand.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy6iOSXJm_S2R6IvsgYYVXfTRQTVadvG42eQXkIY8Me5f_DXUFqrPxGMRFPHPcPSMcjV1OIL-rEIEGf7F6QAP_WV0gQHJZhL87dUEkNVlFt_7SvvvdXsX_copii4nxY-dezuhrE5Fb6lB0gXev5AO3JHHYoJC9fQqYzeFSdZspYo7Ix3Bg0ityjKDXBeE1/s800/2023-12-02%2019.14.15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy6iOSXJm_S2R6IvsgYYVXfTRQTVadvG42eQXkIY8Me5f_DXUFqrPxGMRFPHPcPSMcjV1OIL-rEIEGf7F6QAP_WV0gQHJZhL87dUEkNVlFt_7SvvvdXsX_copii4nxY-dezuhrE5Fb6lB0gXev5AO3JHHYoJC9fQqYzeFSdZspYo7Ix3Bg0ityjKDXBeE1/w640-h480/2023-12-02%2019.14.15.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguFJLFcjDhlKEXuvW4N9sRjYMOZ1C2rcAyH5SZA1GRMbHJ1mXjH8xwKtfbNQYKc7PcUTGUKExz2f2ea8AeLJDIs3VOvE4tlhaL-auTQ9R9mOzrDxjMTsuZUbuBSbDKNcOJvKz4frHmz39wql1LcBp__B1joLOpaqUZuuPoBANsuqwEyt4wIHZj5_Eh-OtI/s800/2023-12-02%2018.08.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguFJLFcjDhlKEXuvW4N9sRjYMOZ1C2rcAyH5SZA1GRMbHJ1mXjH8xwKtfbNQYKc7PcUTGUKExz2f2ea8AeLJDIs3VOvE4tlhaL-auTQ9R9mOzrDxjMTsuZUbuBSbDKNcOJvKz4frHmz39wql1LcBp__B1joLOpaqUZuuPoBANsuqwEyt4wIHZj5_Eh-OtI/w480-h640/2023-12-02%2018.08.26.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ZwNxvuGHEsMfxc-Si9PRvVYdB1Rgzuc5on35mWBy6bjV9FiB-8rufn1NIP_M6j_r3NoC_waTomI2h1gglKwR80ChU6M2_9k2k6TXKVt5NmfEG7Fhq8X_cLkgDORnrser9LGPu7AD7XgbcO_1HlnZuF5h0e2HU8T-c6g7dBqRAgU-kqymhQ2oO_wR3rg8/s800/2023-12-02%2018.55.04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ZwNxvuGHEsMfxc-Si9PRvVYdB1Rgzuc5on35mWBy6bjV9FiB-8rufn1NIP_M6j_r3NoC_waTomI2h1gglKwR80ChU6M2_9k2k6TXKVt5NmfEG7Fhq8X_cLkgDORnrser9LGPu7AD7XgbcO_1HlnZuF5h0e2HU8T-c6g7dBqRAgU-kqymhQ2oO_wR3rg8/w480-h640/2023-12-02%2018.55.04.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> </div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-83127377422084906122023-12-02T12:48:00.001-05:002023-12-02T20:33:23.665-05:00Christmas vs. Halloween: St. Nick vs. Old Nick<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWuZc7YJnYy1Mz-pnMCMRVj8Aa-XkP8eOcQJfCo5JgyrsS20xXGuHD4dTj0gigXwmvAdip3E28G-ylHkNK71TqyQOlz_wFXfQTNKv8ZGrUXFFka73eQY5GrxfBRRGQy3ydRD-Q4iDEhAA/s1600/ChristmasHalloween+2__OTIS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWuZc7YJnYy1Mz-pnMCMRVj8Aa-XkP8eOcQJfCo5JgyrsS20xXGuHD4dTj0gigXwmvAdip3E28G-ylHkNK71TqyQOlz_wFXfQTNKv8ZGrUXFFka73eQY5GrxfBRRGQy3ydRD-Q4iDEhAA/s1600/ChristmasHalloween+2__OTIS.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><i>December 2, 2023 — </i></b>Yesterday, in <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/12/i-am-war-on-christmas.html">kicking off</a> this Christmas villain of a project, I mentioned some of the underlying truths and falsehoods of Halloween and Christmas. I think we should compare them some more. So, as the serial killer said to the set of toes sticking out of the ground, "Let's dig deeper."<div><br /><div><b>1. Celebrations and Obligations</b><br /><br />Christmas isn't a holiday. It's a to-do list. You've got a bunch of people you have to figure out what to buy for and then spend your time shopping (and, as all the commercials tell us, each one has to be the "perfect gift"). Then there are all the family obligations. Overall, we spend more time running Christmas errands than celebrating Christmas when we should be focusing on the reason for the season: Cordial cherries. Natch.<br /><br />Halloween, on the other hand, is full of haunted houses and corn mazes and pumpkin patches and apple orchards and leaf peeping and graveyard skulking and horror movie watching. As the sage said, "Nothing but sincerity as far as the eye can see." And you never have to talk to that one weird uncle much less share an eggnog with office mates who are only in your life because of capitalism. There's just not an obligation in sight. Other than the easily met/skipped ones of costumes and candy.<br /><br />One way to fix this issue would be to place an age limit on receiving gifts—like the vague age limit we have around trick-or-treating. Once you’re too big to sit on Santa’s lap, you’re too old for shiny boxes full of stuff you'll forget about come January. Besides, kids are much easier to buy for than adults, and it’s much more gratifying to watch them open presents, anyway.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJnZcG-FWIycfvE_QQnAtrZLQbbeywmqt7KkAvgOuI_LGYB9Rx5PI1hBgUXFZMsar5ha7UNZ-clKqrBCc7yL4EIK9fAUJFar7sGRqKsrDp349DJh3WoTyQnVXcgfh82fHzPv52-55pAVp/s1600/ChristmasHalloween+3__OTIS.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJnZcG-FWIycfvE_QQnAtrZLQbbeywmqt7KkAvgOuI_LGYB9Rx5PI1hBgUXFZMsar5ha7UNZ-clKqrBCc7yL4EIK9fAUJFar7sGRqKsrDp349DJh3WoTyQnVXcgfh82fHzPv52-55pAVp/s1600/ChristmasHalloween+3__OTIS.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">Sure, you've seen the jack-o-lantern in this scene, but what about the Munsters lunchbox below it?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>2. Sentiment for Sale</b><br /><br />I hate that our culture is wallpapered with eye-aching ads and commercials and logos, but if it’s gotta be there, I want it participating in the holiday. In other words, if it’s going to be my backdrop, I want it decorated. However, Christmas commercials are invariably sappy and, worse, disingenuous as they try to present heartwarming Christmas moments that are nothing more than salesmen shoved in Santa costumes. Here's a tearjerker about an elderly man in Ireland visiting the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/reel/C0CiTwtsNRC/?utm_source=ig_embed&ig_rid=8dd3b349-f875-4b91-bc88-83a2fdaee5de" target="_blank">grave of a loved one</a> (make sure you stop by Charlie's Bar to have a pint or two). Or a kid experiencing the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vB1Xluwxa60" target="_blank">wonder of a reindeer farm</a> (make sure you shop ag Kohl's). Remember when ET even came back for that <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mQoQ4AFD0kg" target="_blank">heartfelt Christmas reunion</a> with a now-adult Eliot? (make sure you subscribe to Xfinity for all your internet needs). </div><div><br /></div><div>Halloween commercials don’t have to pretend to be anything that they’re not: Product pitches with spooky ambiance. You like monsters? Great. Here's a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HdSDMmCrMP8&t=15s" target="_blank">vampire eating a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup</a>. Fog machines and castles turn you on? Buy some <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qi1Ai-dodws&t=5s" target="_blank">Duracells</a>. No commoditization of sentiment there. Just honest commoditization.<br /><br /><b>3. Calendar Space</b><br /><br />There’s not much Christmas can do about this one. I mean, its end-of-year placement is ideal for nostalgia and reminiscing…if it weren’t squeezed between two other major holidays. On the other hand, the Halloween Season signals the end of a terrible, terrible holiday drought that is January through August (Easter sucks and so does July 4th, although I like the latter as an extra day off). I guess, also relevant is that I start celebrating Halloween in September. Regardless of where the jack-o-lantern sticker is on your calendar, we're so ready for Halloween when the season rolls around. But Christmas just becomes the next holiday on the list. And sometimes, merely a second Thanksgiving.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyI1RtV9-ECbcK_xWVS6pnSvwTskwwWK9Q4K44CRXmABHLHfKvKNn_g_V8Gwkl9BqTuCNcNc72GTXflRLlM44yOehwNNnQKKABo6xtCxocomptwU-4-Kxnytl0GTgFO4SMiXFtnQXUPfS/s1600/ChristmasHalloween+4__OTIS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyI1RtV9-ECbcK_xWVS6pnSvwTskwwWK9Q4K44CRXmABHLHfKvKNn_g_V8Gwkl9BqTuCNcNc72GTXflRLlM44yOehwNNnQKKABo6xtCxocomptwU-4-Kxnytl0GTgFO4SMiXFtnQXUPfS/s1600/ChristmasHalloween+4__OTIS.jpg" width="478" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>4. Let’s All Party</b><br /><br />Christmas is getting better at this one, but the holiday is still a hugely religious one. That alienates some serious potential mistletoe moments. If you don’t believe that 2,000 years ago, a skin-covered universe-maker was tortured and killed because sometimes you imagine movie actors naked, then you might feel uncomfortable rooting for Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye to dance snow down in Vermont or bundled up lovers one-horse-opening a sleigh. And that’s too bad, because that makes Christmas more than fake. It makes it a jerk.<br /><br />I mean, if you’re looking for even more Christmas obligations (see Point #1), then religious ones are the way to go, I guess. Go to church. Feel guilty about buying presents instead of remembering a god-baby in a feeding trough. I mean, his father forsook, it's probably ok if we do for a holiday or two. But Halloween is for everybody. No matter what you believe. It’s a death celebration, so if you have death somewhere in your future, you’re in. Do you have a skeleton? Great, here’s a skeleton costume. Do you bleed? Good, here’s a vial of fake blood to dribble down your chin. You can all take part in our candy-bowl Eucharist. This is my body which was given for you, now don't forget to brush your teeth afterwards.<br /><br /><b>5. More Christmas Character</b><br /><br />Christmas needs desperately to widen its palette of characters. It’s got elves, reindeer, snowmen, angels, and Big Red himself. But that’s basically it. Halloween has an extremely diverse and growing assortment of monsters and ghosts and fiends to pull from. This means Halloween stories have more variety, while Christmas has to recombine those same characters over and over, which is why 50% of Christmas movies are about saving Christmas and the other 50% are about learning its "true meaning." Certainly, some storytellers over the years have valiantly tried to fix this problem. Rankin/Bass gave us the Bumble and the Miser Brothers. Dr. Seuss gave us the Grinch. Dickens gave us Scrooge and his ghosts. And Krampus has made a pretty successful run to the front of Santa’s sleigh these days.<br /><br />Wait. That’s a lot of monsters. Maybe Christmas is already learning from Halloween.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITRfJsug0aSmNg1mKejT0Xq9sm4eaHkalITb6UXX0Dd_eRHWjn3ICa3hJSkaAz_5pGYBhH9XuJ88Ik1S66yslEFM6TuWYvuzak07V5MGcnfM7X87lJ2iHFOtGWWWK3EkQDZoEwU0xd4zo/s1600/ChristmasHalloween+1__OTIS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITRfJsug0aSmNg1mKejT0Xq9sm4eaHkalITb6UXX0Dd_eRHWjn3ICa3hJSkaAz_5pGYBhH9XuJ88Ik1S66yslEFM6TuWYvuzak07V5MGcnfM7X87lJ2iHFOtGWWWK3EkQDZoEwU0xd4zo/s1600/ChristmasHalloween+1__OTIS.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-61964714071096444182023-12-01T15:06:00.002-05:002023-12-01T16:44:08.226-05:00I am the War on Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSuUSzNA5j4ct68ZxkzGF1-68itlcfGMn3yUZzC1dI4NdLm7FPZBxhJJFBbBEpvh4lCobQjsqlkZ5EKMDI7Ed4_KtY3F7xT5MzJ1Urd6qmK8gXAGqcm2m0cRD5m0PcbEN0qpsoUPqrd2pS_TR1r3pPQXJyqFswv09LyNAiZXqDU0M5s35yspZSI9_6rYvK/s800/IMG_9999.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSuUSzNA5j4ct68ZxkzGF1-68itlcfGMn3yUZzC1dI4NdLm7FPZBxhJJFBbBEpvh4lCobQjsqlkZ5EKMDI7Ed4_KtY3F7xT5MzJ1Urd6qmK8gXAGqcm2m0cRD5m0PcbEN0qpsoUPqrd2pS_TR1r3pPQXJyqFswv09LyNAiZXqDU0M5s35yspZSI9_6rYvK/w640-h436/IMG_9999.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>December 1, 2023 — </i></b>Welcome to the OTIS Christmas Season Blog!
I haven’t done one of these since 2010 when I was trying to “content market”
myself to a successful first book, <i>The New England Grimpendium</i>. It was also the
first year of my Halloween Season Blog, a tradition that continued over the next
thirteen years, but I never tried another Christmas blog. Not because I didn’t
love Christmas. Just because I couldn’t do that much blogging back-to-back from
September through December—aka, the only time of year that mattered. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In fact, I used to tell people that my favorite holiday between
Hallowmas and Christween is whichever one we’re in at the time. Then, over the
years, the annoying obligations of Christmas took the shine off its balls,
while Halloween remained as care-free as a broomstick ride and I had to admit
that Halloween has always been better than Christmas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I still loved Christmas. And now I’m bringing the OTIS
Christmas Season Blog back. Because I want to destroy the holiday. To red and
green smithereens.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZX07JqxYdM0mxILXbu7VdXV-Q1IkkCnLMxNUrTEruokiSRTkLOrV7EU7gvhXW3wm7tCJfml7mWkXZoojiBP259nv-XPB2WWUF0q9bTeTIaxSbZQIYx4i2DyIGBfqf6xxODHpWeKYBWmbyCFSXfWjaNNiPSmRW8ayYit7ivMXjdhnnQ11Kb6YjKcSoKKmc/s800/DSC_8293.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="800" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZX07JqxYdM0mxILXbu7VdXV-Q1IkkCnLMxNUrTEruokiSRTkLOrV7EU7gvhXW3wm7tCJfml7mWkXZoojiBP259nv-XPB2WWUF0q9bTeTIaxSbZQIYx4i2DyIGBfqf6xxODHpWeKYBWmbyCFSXfWjaNNiPSmRW8ayYit7ivMXjdhnnQ11Kb6YjKcSoKKmc/w640-h426/DSC_8293.JPG" width="640" /></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s right. I want to be a Scrooge who can ball up all three
ghosts of Christmas, and then toss them into the nearest chute like soiled laundry,
and then dock Cratchit half a week’s pay for using an entire piece of coal to
warm his stupid hands. Why? Because things are bad with me? Of course. That’s
exactly why. Christmas is the worst time of year for many people. And now I’ve
been red-rovered to that side of the playground with them—the lonely, the bereft,
the rejected, the forgotten, the aching, the taken advantage of. That’s me. I might
also have a victim complex. But I’m taking Benadryl for that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">However, I also think, even aside from the landmine of my
life, that Christmas-haters have an objective point. Christmas sucks, man. It’s
a communal exercise in willful ignorance and desperate pretending.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I mean, peace on Earth and good will toward men? That’s a
fantasy. It’s not even a practical aspiration or a goal. Half the world’s at
war right now. And even if worldwide goodness were attainable in some far-off
evolved future, we won’t get there through presents and tinsel. Not through Bing
Crosby and eight tiny reindeer. Not even through holding hands and Fah Who
Foraze-ing. Christmas is us pretending. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And what’s true of the world is true of many families. All pretending
this time of year. Like we all really do believe in Santa Claus and are trying
to make up for an entire year of being selfish jerks who spend more time eye-to-screen
than eye-to-eye.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, we pretend that a tree dying in the corner of our
living room is a joyous decoration. That covering our mantels and bannisters in
plastic boughs and glass baubles makes life beautiful. So much fake silver and
gold, everywhere, you goddamn Burl Ives Snowman.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I’m not talking about the consumerism of Christmas. That
is certainly something awful (and I say this as a guy who walked through the
Times Square Macy’s last week and then had to take a seven-hour shower afterward).
But I’ll also opine that it might be the inevitable outcome of a fundamentally
fake holiday.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Christmas is a lot of pretending.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s why Hallmark can make a million Christmas movies
every year with cardboard people and dental-floss plotlines, and jolly jackasses
lap them up 24-7 from their electric easy chairs. Fake is fine for fa-la-la. It’s
pressuring kisses under poisonous plants. It’s lying to children to constrain
their behavior. It’s forcing an awkward smile for a present you don’t actually
care about.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFf7O1cyRYbR-I1e05ZRHC3btausoCcmFFGSmJMVgZgsisrlHJU8As4kd_sH7PrSjFMM7Wk3Ts4DIEDI5jP6CvO2nOKxrktFsLnwinfjrXQXz4wRmIDr4VDEkn3KtCJgwVsU4NndsoMinaQf40nLcPaeMyzbKYIqZZQZulLhEG6V9Nx6C5xpIQ6ZBlpsi/s800/IMG_2628.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFf7O1cyRYbR-I1e05ZRHC3btausoCcmFFGSmJMVgZgsisrlHJU8As4kd_sH7PrSjFMM7Wk3Ts4DIEDI5jP6CvO2nOKxrktFsLnwinfjrXQXz4wRmIDr4VDEkn3KtCJgwVsU4NndsoMinaQf40nLcPaeMyzbKYIqZZQZulLhEG6V9Nx6C5xpIQ6ZBlpsi/w640-h480/IMG_2628.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I blame a lot of this on you, Dickens. </td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal">Halloween, on the other hand, is honest. Oh, you don’t want
to think about the inevitable death of you and your loved ones? Well, here’s a bunch
of skeletons hanging from your roof, some tombstones staked in your lawn, a corpse
or two on your porch. Try to ignore it now, you decaying conglomeration of ticking
cells. Oh, you don’t want to meditate on the vulnerability of your children and
your ultimate inadequacy in protecting them? Just shove them out into the night
to interact with strangers. Afraid of monsters under bed, are you? Well, not
only are they there, but they’re in your closet and in the grocery store aisles
and on your TV and coming right to your door. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Christmas is the opposite. It’s covering everything in white,
pure-seeming snow when everything is actually mud and dead leaves and worms beneath.
Halloween gathers up all that death and decay into a pile and commands us to jump
right into it, sucker in hand, Linus-like.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s why we have to work so hard to give family and friends
and children a “good Christmas.” Because it won’t happen by itself. It’s not a
natural state. You have to fake it. To go through the motions. Otherwise, if
your Christmas sucked, you have to admit life sucks. And that you probably suck,
too. I sure do.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So this season, Christmas will be ours—the prostrated, the
cynical, the pessimistic, the debased, the humbled, the impoverished, the
little children pointing at naked emperors. Let’s destroy Christmas together,
you and I. Like Jack Skellington almost did. Doesn’t mean I’m boycotting. The opposite.
I will defiantly partake of its shenanigans. You can’t throw fruitcake on the ground
until you ask for a slice.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But you don’t have to join me. You can just grab a tin of
caramel/cheese/butter popcorn and watch me do it. I figure it’ll take me ten-ish
articles. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh, and kids? There is no Santa.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYq8yotV-8gx3S5pT4383sOmSMP4y1lOLhUgObVWCVvX7iu-A7kCv5NewEab38YMe_LD3r6A6GrL6kdc8TrpLVXRj_VXxZ_bLQ3v5-1rpPlXN8ZpmMKcsoHdKea8HF8oofHi3BzCdz90ICR3XqlUY22vI9WTcZmPhfIPlPeOwGWb3j5t8KyGU9li7A9-9/s800/IMG_9871.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="534" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYq8yotV-8gx3S5pT4383sOmSMP4y1lOLhUgObVWCVvX7iu-A7kCv5NewEab38YMe_LD3r6A6GrL6kdc8TrpLVXRj_VXxZ_bLQ3v5-1rpPlXN8ZpmMKcsoHdKea8HF8oofHi3BzCdz90ICR3XqlUY22vI9WTcZmPhfIPlPeOwGWb3j5t8KyGU9li7A9-9/w428-h640/IMG_9871.JPG" width="428" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-90132878917013770532023-11-01T15:31:00.003-04:002023-11-02T14:37:40.753-04:00 Happy (???) Halloween 2023<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4i5L9kPLdo1hz4vaMh1rVUeUfUfBZSUeC_UCTZ8iLVJABDvzliLymsQvEjftIz5S2WkZZo_znrnVwI1hRBWVthclJGHdcPtAqI_eE06vbMac6fIS3qYpiaShUXqrqAjZWY3shX32CL8FXtZ0tXsGzUTHHTtcB5j05FneSTcQU7FsxHoz5M0zMQEK4t9Z/s800/2023-10-31%2017.32.04.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq4i5L9kPLdo1hz4vaMh1rVUeUfUfBZSUeC_UCTZ8iLVJABDvzliLymsQvEjftIz5S2WkZZo_znrnVwI1hRBWVthclJGHdcPtAqI_eE06vbMac6fIS3qYpiaShUXqrqAjZWY3shX32CL8FXtZ0tXsGzUTHHTtcB5j05FneSTcQU7FsxHoz5M0zMQEK4t9Z/w640-h480/2023-10-31%2017.32.04.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>So. Did Halloween save J.W. Ocker? <br /><br />Of course not. <br /><br />But you knew it wouldn’t. I knew it wouldn’t. Carapace Clavical Moundshroud knew it wouldn’t. That spooky old pirate guy from <i>Garfield’s Halloween Adventure</i> knew it wouldn’t. Even Ernest knew it…and he’s scared stupid (please pray for him). <br /><br />Looking back on my adventures this season, they was some high-tier Halloween: An overnight in Sleepy Hollow, a paranormal convention with Annabelle, an Edgar Allan Poe memorial unveiling, Salem multiple times, a road trip, pumpkin carving, corn-mazing, horror movie watching, popcorn ball making, caramel apples, spooky cereals, candy corn, the PEZ factory, an October birthday. Haunted Overload. Friday the 13th. A horror convention. And we decorated like we were being held hostage by the Great Pumpkin. <br /><br />It was, by most metrics, great, especially the last weekend, which really goes down as one of the best fall weekends I’ve ever had from the beginning of time, as far as what we did, at least. <br /><br />However, honestly, I only celebrated the season when the girls were around, so about 30% of the time. Otherwise, I mostly watched <i>Moonlighting </i>and held all the strings together that keep this life going even minimally, like I was in a <i>Saw</i> trap. Strangely, my current situation maintains all the massive responsibilities of the previous situation, plus a ton more. <br /><br />But, I want to make sure the girls get Halloween. That they love it. Because it has been so good to me over the years. I don’t want them to miss out on any of that just because everything fractured—life, our family, their past, my brain. I mean, one day they might find themselves at the whim of a destructive force that can hurt their lives badly, especially if the girls turn out to be the kind, open, vulnerable individuals that they are now. And they probably will encounter that at some point (although I take comfort in knowing that few forces are as destructive as the one I experienced). But, hopefully, they get a good run and some nice continuity. That a jack-o smile will always make them smile. Even if everyone’s smashed in the road on November 1. <br /><br />Halloween night found me by myself for the first time in at least 20 years. Maybe longer. And I, probably foolishly, decided to keep it solo. I wanted to watch something spooky and give candy to trick-or-treaters. You know, get back to the basics.<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmPPozNNP-MRJnSqlBYz0qys8ljT7Z1SEYdZcYP6WX31Xii6Z727GJ3nNzs_D65WVpJEE7tAEr5elkwbBgjGhRAB2nxB1QlxfQge0BcGh-sC8xXtT4BkgqdgGmpwU-qeRk1mFi3z2wiwwsB-EP-gp0iVnbhcwP4licXrjMZHKRixTQXA35-pK7BlMF-gk/s800/2023-10-31%2018.05.54-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmPPozNNP-MRJnSqlBYz0qys8ljT7Z1SEYdZcYP6WX31Xii6Z727GJ3nNzs_D65WVpJEE7tAEr5elkwbBgjGhRAB2nxB1QlxfQge0BcGh-sC8xXtT4BkgqdgGmpwU-qeRk1mFi3z2wiwwsB-EP-gp0iVnbhcwP4licXrjMZHKRixTQXA35-pK7BlMF-gk/w640-h480/2023-10-31%2018.05.54-1.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br /><br />I was going to choose a horror movie that I’ve never seen before, but I knew I’d be jumping up and down from the couch every time the doorbell rang and that my mind would probably wander, so I stuck to the trinity of Halloween specials: <i>The Halloween Tree</i>, <i>Garfield’s Halloween Adventure</i>, and <i>It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown</i>, the total run times fitting perfectly in our 6-8 trick-or-treating window. <br /><br />Also, I think I might have chosen those because I was doing the Halloween equivalent of grounding. Instead of bare feet on grass, it was Binky the Clown and a ghost Pipkin in my eyeballs.<div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>And then it was just me and Big Face the scarecrow and the jack-o-lanterns that the girls carved to keep company. <br /><br />I started with <i>The Halloween Tree</i>. I was worried about this one. I purposefully didn’t read any Ray this year because I didn’t want the taint of the situation to bleed across his pages. But I had to do something Ray-ish this season. And that first scene of the town and Ray's narration got me a little. Took me back to my jaunts in the <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2016/09/ever-green-town-birthplace-of-ray.html" target="_blank">Illinois town</a> and the <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2016/09/thats-where-pip-told-us-to-go-ray.html" target="_blank">ravine</a> that inspired the original book. My ear yearned for a doorbell ring to distract me, and I got up once or twice hoping to see small shadows sneaking across my yard to the porch.<div><br /></div><div>I actually didn’t get my first trick-or-treater until 6:40, about the time the Halloween Tree kids were preparing to rebuild Notre Dame. But then I got 23 in the next twenty minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLigkCn6hzNu4z9biNFJ0EuQll2x5_2wXvLPQzdcVfp7MCm34cP_8_9IPGaVXsCUm0NNckTQFvf4NoVILEGewktuXYZbC9FvZESF2NPnVQwkmasdqfua3c22HaVjdYifoA6begLuOHBL2AyU5YFrcgOUui5MRr2sp-1pMe3bl3XkPHbDvl8LoawhUFRGr/s800/2023-10-31%2019.15.38-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLigkCn6hzNu4z9biNFJ0EuQll2x5_2wXvLPQzdcVfp7MCm34cP_8_9IPGaVXsCUm0NNckTQFvf4NoVILEGewktuXYZbC9FvZESF2NPnVQwkmasdqfua3c22HaVjdYifoA6begLuOHBL2AyU5YFrcgOUui5MRr2sp-1pMe3bl3XkPHbDvl8LoawhUFRGr/w640-h480/2023-10-31%2019.15.38-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />During one break in the treaters, I went outside, to both experience the real Halloween night and to see how my set up looked through new eyes. It was daunting. The Black House is set back from the road a bit, and my decorations glow ominously. Next year, I need to full-size candy bar everybody. I just wasn’t sure how many trick-or-treaters I’d get this year. In the past, I spent the first half of Halloween trick-or-treating with my girls, and the second half giving out candy, so I never knew exactly how many approach my door on any given year. <br /><br />Still, I loved hearing the “Happy Halloween!” and “Trick-or-Treat!” and “Nice decorations!” from all the little movie serial killers and werewolves and pirates and fairies and hockey players (for some reason). I ended up with around 60 trick-or-treaters by the end of the night. Enough that I started getting candy anxiety. I bought 200 pieces, but I can never just give out one. It’s gotta be handfuls most of the time. </div><div><br />But there was some downtime in between hearing people exclaim about the giant skeleton before pushing the doorbell. And in those in-between times (and also the post-trick-or-treat time), the mood was melancholy. I kept hoping the next trick-or-treaters would be my kids, even though that was impossible. I kept out-of-bodying and seeing the scene as one of those ending moments in a movie, the ones that show the fates of the characters while the ending narration tries to put it all in perspective. For my character, it was sitting in the dark, the orange and purple lights playing across my face and reflecting in the wetness of my eyeballs. Sometimes it felt like I saw every Halloween I’d ever experienced crash together in my head all at once. It was difficult. I’d need three times the trick-or-treaters to distract me.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0H_-2JNCBTm_nhyphenhyphenKVX8mQnqs9grtIw8VEwWW-5P4Q0aBG751L0zo3FMShauTk-WI1INBMzI_v4Jd9G13nBXmpQoHER3TH8IAMP1_uPujhgIa8lzDtn-6wpN2PmXshZPKQF2puHXdHcz0_7WdUjF5pFQ4yFXIlb0WBWCHDN0ifqMxfHzTleun8btalYrn/s800/2023-10-31%2019.28.19-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0H_-2JNCBTm_nhyphenhyphenKVX8mQnqs9grtIw8VEwWW-5P4Q0aBG751L0zo3FMShauTk-WI1INBMzI_v4Jd9G13nBXmpQoHER3TH8IAMP1_uPujhgIa8lzDtn-6wpN2PmXshZPKQF2puHXdHcz0_7WdUjF5pFQ4yFXIlb0WBWCHDN0ifqMxfHzTleun8btalYrn/w640-h480/2023-10-31%2019.28.19-1.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div><div><br /></div>It feels like I’m missing skin. All of it. Like the line from that song in Disney’s <i>The Legend of Sleepy Hollow</i>, “And some don’t even wear their skin.” That’s me. Skinless. Skinned. That’s the Halloween costume I should have worn. Frank Cotton from <i>Hellraiser</i>. Everything that happens, both tiny and large, mundane and important, hurts. I don’t even have the thinnest armor, an epidermis, protecting me. Conversely, I also have trouble feeling anything. I just don’t have the skin for it. <br /><br />But Halloween is over now, other than taking down the decorations. And I don’t know what’s next. This blog has been good for me, I think. Maybe I’ll keep writing it here. Do an “In Defense of Scrooge” blog this Christmas. <br /><br />Fuck. Christmas is next.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-47425611352335692712023-10-31T00:56:00.003-04:002023-10-31T15:40:06.330-04:00Benching Edgar Allan Poe: The Newest Westford Poe Memorial<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvCAbT6E4AOAOnHMKMvs0mTN4P8y7kZQ3RD7qtINRK-M-M2YoBlZVDvNhEfnBa2fnYhiYXVs1xnuhcRvTp14CSAW0LbSdsra-Zu_elUQEn_gFuzhK8eerO2Sbk5T8qec5lR6xdu5AlJFmzbwF1nlUleSGsF5REvW5_bifUv494GLwKsgt0EAlkobjQDn0/s730/Screenshot%20(3734).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="575" data-original-width="730" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwvCAbT6E4AOAOnHMKMvs0mTN4P8y7kZQ3RD7qtINRK-M-M2YoBlZVDvNhEfnBa2fnYhiYXVs1xnuhcRvTp14CSAW0LbSdsra-Zu_elUQEn_gFuzhK8eerO2Sbk5T8qec5lR6xdu5AlJFmzbwF1nlUleSGsF5REvW5_bifUv494GLwKsgt0EAlkobjQDn0/w640-h504/Screenshot%20(3734).png" width="640" /></a></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>October 30, 2023 — </i></b>When it comes to Edgar Allan Poe, I’ve done a lot. Held his hair in my hands. Pieces of his coffin. His wedding ring. I’ve given talks at exhibition openings of Poe artifacts. Hung with Poe collectors and Poe performers. Eaten at Poe-themed restaurants. I’ve been to his houses, his honeymoon suite, his schools and military posts, his inspirations and his memorials and monuments and graves (yes, plural). My name appears on a brick outside his home in Baltimore, on a plaque under his bust in the Boston Public Library. I’ve won a major literary award shaped like his head. Even been to two different Poe monument dedications. And all because I wrote a book about the bastard. <br /><br />But never have I participated in a Poe monument dedication. Until Sunday.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik9O7oLzGGPInD7BQ9LDWlz_VDgcpbSVuqmdx-3rHwHLTe0Rj0cKVPgBvzHrDfRqfakmFhMMU6OSLc-_tSLEpanYpuBJrPTSDt2Gplkl36bxUFIfSdVczuWnClxc9nvPIAM6Qia1ADR5HugaL4GTRGNr5_Ogg7XdOQPcRNRpcgefnLUQHKFjsSqDBFnc2W/s800/2023-10-29%2014.47.51.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik9O7oLzGGPInD7BQ9LDWlz_VDgcpbSVuqmdx-3rHwHLTe0Rj0cKVPgBvzHrDfRqfakmFhMMU6OSLc-_tSLEpanYpuBJrPTSDt2Gplkl36bxUFIfSdVczuWnClxc9nvPIAM6Qia1ADR5HugaL4GTRGNr5_Ogg7XdOQPcRNRpcgefnLUQHKFjsSqDBFnc2W/w640-h480/2023-10-29%2014.47.51.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div><div><br /></div>Poe was infatuated with a woman in Westford, Massachusetts, named Nancy Richmond. They met at one of his poetry lectures in Lowell, Massachusetts, in 1848. He called her Annie and would visit her at her home. His poem, <i>For Annie</i> was, well, for Annie. One of his strangest letters was written to her. In it (<a href="https://www.eapoe.org/works/letters/p4811160.htm" target="_blank">which you can read here</a>), he professes a debilitating amount of love for her and then describes his attempt at suicide by the ingestion of laudanum. The letter is almost more Poe than Poe. Unfortunately, Annie was married. Also, unfortunately, Poe would die a year later. Her house still stands, and there’s a <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2011/09/edgar-allan-poes-boston.html" target="_blank">simple stone marker</a> by it denoting his visits there. <br /><br />And now Westford has doubled down on Poe with a bronze memorial outside the Parish Center for the Arts. All courtesy of sculptor David Christiana and the Westford Remembers Memorial Fund. He invited me to say a few words at the dedication after he learned of my affinity for one of his other works, the Westford Knight statue, and my work with Poe.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFjHXtv9p2F5CAE-bUKYn5GE5V8tA2hFv-6e0uj_p0g026EoGShX15z2mKiXc3-jaWlIpRvILVOKgnadKcLO76NSyUY7m61Xbnnainbntpa8yxw95soZl266nCTYg-jVyfLvGRG0E5RAfAFzYaD0W_zafaGxAuk4Zqtfnjy6t5tqT-1LBEk9uyjQyR9-E/w640-h500/Screenshot%20(3733).png" width="640" /> </div><br />Despite the rain, there was a good turnout. We held court inside the adjacent Westford Museum, where more chairs had to be procured to accommodate the attendance. The museum manager got up and explained Poe’s relationship with the town. David got up and explained his motivations for the project. The abovementioned letter was read, and then I got up and said a few relatively ad hoc words about Poe and Westford and the importance of commemorating what actually makes a town special. And being a Poe site is special. <br /><br />And then we went outside in the sputtering rain, and I had the honor of standing alongside the sculptor and helping lift the black veil obscuring his creation. <br /><br />The artwork is a small stone bench engraved with Poe's signature and topped by a bronze top hat covered in phrases from his works and a bronze walking stick. About ten feet away a raven overlooks the bench, perching and sitting and nothing more. In this case, the raven was a wax effigy, as its bronze form hadn’t been completed yet. David called it all, “the most subtle of Poe memorials.” The idea was that Poe had left his hat and walking stick in the town, and by creating it as a bench where a person could sit, they could interact with the sculpture and sort of sit with Poe.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr0N4z6QLgGCnz8cZSxYn4UTg1ShIm1vR1KdIimYaoRkqxBM9bLsy6r_DzNMJ6aYEvHZrTHwMLWAINId_uf1_ax0ACud8CsLDz16OMzxSfjN_zv1Tzukz82tVaMNBurHcpicz85G9W6i41cxPL9G3o3pS6_Gw55226DK_MdxUsWTfi1zxkl5peNTxHwh2i/s800/2023-10-29%2015.05.06-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr0N4z6QLgGCnz8cZSxYn4UTg1ShIm1vR1KdIimYaoRkqxBM9bLsy6r_DzNMJ6aYEvHZrTHwMLWAINId_uf1_ax0ACud8CsLDz16OMzxSfjN_zv1Tzukz82tVaMNBurHcpicz85G9W6i41cxPL9G3o3pS6_Gw55226DK_MdxUsWTfi1zxkl5peNTxHwh2i/w640-h480/2023-10-29%2015.05.06-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVM33eqxl8Mwt0naHySpV3i7CZmXCzIKRxoJMQ5XHoNVasxfXX4NX06_YE5wC_QYJM1HeKEEfogrE3nmIvTgJxjlDE47qgDBVdlRY5M9rFxYw7Bg2zY3pt_0S0RT1458ie8K4lhJSibNnVcPjyHC4XQF6SPoJzQrlzdnC_si7_SOOMV2qZs_xNwWZgGCI/s800/2023-10-29%2015.05.18-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinVM33eqxl8Mwt0naHySpV3i7CZmXCzIKRxoJMQ5XHoNVasxfXX4NX06_YE5wC_QYJM1HeKEEfogrE3nmIvTgJxjlDE47qgDBVdlRY5M9rFxYw7Bg2zY3pt_0S0RT1458ie8K4lhJSibNnVcPjyHC4XQF6SPoJzQrlzdnC_si7_SOOMV2qZs_xNwWZgGCI/w640-h480/2023-10-29%2015.05.18-1.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div><div><br /></div>I liked it. The iconography David chose was unique. The idea relevant. Even the subtlety was welcome, as if Westford understood it didn’t loom as large in Poe’s history as, say, Baltimore or Boston or New York or Richmond, but that it still played an important part in Poe’s story. </div><div><br />David even gave me a raven-adorned medallion he created to signify my participation in the event. It’s now a prized piece of my Poe collection for a prized moment of my life. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3Ah_4jEJ2QCoI3tItvM1H4SD07eMhRziyOU7p8zAaytVq5JclqzPGMqD8BXqvPyfo2It6QQO-Vfjm4hFnVTHjCOPRgC7avc9HRYmtQQBfylJk26kBM_rOV1O6GPjXkpte3uHbIrhD6CDRgvN2RKusJAxQdKn8rNuYxukQAIQgbZUrccW8m7IyvMgtpwE/s800/2023-10-30%2023.59.46.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3Ah_4jEJ2QCoI3tItvM1H4SD07eMhRziyOU7p8zAaytVq5JclqzPGMqD8BXqvPyfo2It6QQO-Vfjm4hFnVTHjCOPRgC7avc9HRYmtQQBfylJk26kBM_rOV1O6GPjXkpte3uHbIrhD6CDRgvN2RKusJAxQdKn8rNuYxukQAIQgbZUrccW8m7IyvMgtpwE/w640-h480/2023-10-30%2023.59.46.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />And, to top it all off, while everybody shuffled inside the Parish Center for the artist’s reception, my eldest daughter took advantage of the moment to be the first to ever sit on the monument after its dedication. <br /><br />But only because she thought of doing it before I did.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiycYerfHQeC4Y_n1_QkgNdUY5C9oWj61W1xBGY1k_eX3sjYy8qyWX5LgLJ3nCRabsMLwZdMlX05MMmw6AQupFWaeHQEGg1FxGyAEUcT0TJzcy054PSrX39DfEBhKZVLWIa_Z-s1WL3lIqB3TH_t1OfRcAyMQ656c30lHUxWJxz4whCn7_gdXxZB8pXk6yX/s800/2023-10-29%2015.05.57-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiycYerfHQeC4Y_n1_QkgNdUY5C9oWj61W1xBGY1k_eX3sjYy8qyWX5LgLJ3nCRabsMLwZdMlX05MMmw6AQupFWaeHQEGg1FxGyAEUcT0TJzcy054PSrX39DfEBhKZVLWIa_Z-s1WL3lIqB3TH_t1OfRcAyMQ656c30lHUxWJxz4whCn7_gdXxZB8pXk6yX/w640-h480/2023-10-29%2015.05.57-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-780456586022206062023-10-30T01:52:00.006-04:002023-10-30T19:55:19.531-04:00Raggedy Ann in a Box: The Annabelle Doll<div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbjNtMoyBJsaazRf-Gd7GaNGS9FqpNjYcz_iAAo7MeGNhT4z-hoDMhZePYuGCR8Oj4pW3d1WKP3H-_vfbV4BTZzXMzMyPcqNmkJKGOEadGdKXufXxURhR5CQjtQk2sEBL3EFnGyKGjruncgJUDj5duHmLQxIwmf9kth0ag-NHLMTCrZXx4z6KLas5o67Kn/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2013.46.05.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><i>October 29, 2023 —</i></b> It felt like a moment of destiny for me: Finally seeing the original Annabelle doll with my own two eyes. The infamous haunted/cursed Raggedy Ann toy is the most infamous item in the collection of the late Ed and Lorraine Warren, the famous/infamous paranormal investigators/fame-obsessed charlatans (last slashie, promise). <br /><br />The doll was well-known in paranormal circles for decades, but it became a household name when it was featured in <i>The Conjuring</i> movie in 2013 and then in its own trilogy of Annabelle movies afterward. The doll has ascended the ranks of movie monster icons like few other dolls have. Except for Chucky. And the Zuni fetish doll from <i>Trilogy of Terror</i>. Goosebumps’s Slappy. Billy from <i>Saw</i>. The whole Puppetmaster series. Okay, the bloodstained floor of the horror movie pantheon is crowded below knee-height. <br /><br />Still. Annabelle is a real doll.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpVib8eobIKNPFbvFR1j3TeIc38HLGC85q4Jm_g0vy90gwjZ6P9FNIOfGceqzsb_41s_Gt_t0NdP_08rSLz-tHVQpLvlFkjMLm9SXMN0S0W_svKWIHvwUSWjE7iMAxRe2-b1tYIUvn_Rlrnt0fT0sxvwcfQGQioJpzznvanRSJkLGHgGrBzy8mt2JMO9u/w640-h482/2023-10-28%2013.00.29.jpg" width="640" /> </div><br />Her story is less creepy or dangerous than her actual reputation. In 1970, the doll was gifted to a nursing student named Donna by her mother. The doll would soon appear in places it wasn’t left, bleed, and attack Donna’s roommates with more-than-doll strength. Donna brought in a medium. The medium claimed the doll was possessed by a girl named Annabelle Higgins, who had been murdered and left in a lot that would become the site of Donna’s apartment building. Eventually, the story made it to the Warrens, who took the doll into their custody. On the way home, their car went out of control (or into Annabelle’s control) and almost wrecked them. The doll also had a propensity to levitate and attack priests, so they put it in a glass-fronted box with a handwritten admonition on it: “Warning: Positively Do Not Open.” Its only fatal victim is a visitor who made fun of the doll and then died in a motorcycle accident afterward. <br /><br />Of course, the only source for any and all of this story is the Warrens. The same Warrens who concocted the supernatural chapter of the Amityville Horror with a lawyer and the Lutzes over a couple bottles of wine.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DcWjF-WDhUtMjkBSH5eL9JErVY6Ua1vLFtylzvF-iAMLCXUr_mOM5wAU3Q2wc0TbWsYBWehB-gsRzDVhGJ8PnF6GuHDgr8psRBEc_ChhayfVg9J9veszSvhLogp0r1pVVbZJCyyW_aDszeO8pK8ezkiIZMJezk1EWKHvmAo23IJXvBrCDYLnGSAfFFLF/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2013.02.29.jpg" width="640" /> </div><br />I’d been reading about Annabelle for years, and I even got to write about her in <i>Cursed Objects</i>. But I never got to see her. Not collagen-eyeball-to-plastic-eyeball (mine are the former). <br /><br />That’s mostly because Annabelle was only ever on private display at the Warrens’ home in Monroe, Connecticut. However, after their deaths (Ed in 2006 and Lorraine in 2019), the charade of keeping the dangerous item away from the public was over and it was time to make some real cash on it. <br /><br />The heirs to the Warren Occult Museum started publicly exhibiting items from the collection in 2021 at the awkwardly named The Warren's Seekers of the Supernatural Phantasma-Con. This year I finally got to see the exhibit, including Annabelle, and on the day after we’d visited <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/10/ichabod-crane-would-have-no-chance-in.html" target="_blank">another cursed object</a>, to boot. <br /><br />To boot, to boot, to boot.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixzVwYHKAdpok3YvIIEAv-zeF4wvBVtGLS-O8o6CKq_1pW58T4z7jPQeej12FXqGlI25oKC010xRpxG3pEQ12Fb3LJEHOKk-oFBhKr6sqDXu8fg0sI-cXMxyUol3ex9lIRevZi7H7IXadzwrOzJS86nj_6BUh048Yu2ifDcqpMl8YlRE3zCeZUvnJJEfyu/s800/2023-10-28%2013.01.30.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixzVwYHKAdpok3YvIIEAv-zeF4wvBVtGLS-O8o6CKq_1pW58T4z7jPQeej12FXqGlI25oKC010xRpxG3pEQ12Fb3LJEHOKk-oFBhKr6sqDXu8fg0sI-cXMxyUol3ex9lIRevZi7H7IXadzwrOzJS86nj_6BUh048Yu2ifDcqpMl8YlRE3zCeZUvnJJEfyu/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2013.01.30.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div><div><br /></div>The conference was at the Mohegan Sun casino in Uncasville, Connecticut. For an extra fee atop the convention admission, you get to walk into an atmospherically lit room featuring two dozen items from the Warrens’ collection, interspersed with bowls of holy water. The most notable pieces to me aside from Annabelle were clothing from the Warrens, a key ring given to Ed Warren by George Lutz that held a key to the Amityville Horror house, mannequins dressed up as accused Connecticut witch Hannah Cranna and the Lady in White ghost from Union Cemetery—the grave of the former and the stie of the latter both being locations I’ve visited in my weird rambles. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also on display, I was happy to see, was the Doll of Shadows. I’ll quote from <i>Cursed Objects</i> to describe it (not because I think the passage is particularly well-written, just because I’m too lazy to write something new about the item), which is “five-foot-tall horror made of feathers, bone, and fabric created to curse enemies. Take a photo of it and write your enemy’s name on the back and the creature will appear in that person’s dreams and stop their heart.” Seemed slightly irresponsible to display it in a place that encouraged photography. Also, it wasn’t five feet tall. Maybe with three-and-a-half-foot heels.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm5SsoBGylDQLIExsCimgLP_lYngBMadYiqLdqfhS6VZRQhYUv1Au26S0grzGtdcq0hRzQYW1JhKssWLRtBZDebkAx7Eh10cYFEeSPSMa7A_Hae2GIRnZ5aWzzfF7PBfB3Nk1A_8pvBrYNlEpV6hKjMuG1kOVvAgpxlaEKCIzvssd3iXKKJ773SfPMwq5k/s800/2023-10-28%2013.04.54-2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm5SsoBGylDQLIExsCimgLP_lYngBMadYiqLdqfhS6VZRQhYUv1Au26S0grzGtdcq0hRzQYW1JhKssWLRtBZDebkAx7Eh10cYFEeSPSMa7A_Hae2GIRnZ5aWzzfF7PBfB3Nk1A_8pvBrYNlEpV6hKjMuG1kOVvAgpxlaEKCIzvssd3iXKKJ773SfPMwq5k/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2013.04.54-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Doll of Shadows</td></tr></tbody></table><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>And then there was Annabelle, a doll whose display case has made her more famous than the doll itself. Seriously. That’s the secret. The doll is just a 70s-era Raggedy Ann doll. That’s it. Tens of thousands of children, perhaps hundreds of thousands, owned one of these red-yarn-haired things. It was based on a children’ book character that became a pop culture icon, complete with merchandise and a couple animated series. But stick that doll inside a custom wooden box labelled, “Warning: Positively Do Not Open” and you’ve got yourself something special.</div><div> </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXq4_GqFtCxZzMqU-AsY2kU3lHsZY8PWAt6pNxZmoEKMb3f98oJeqgm8solPTIjIULk4uVAAeEKCKkK9LnQIi81Vh6kceLxsO4uF3EvC9EpRMG3V6k-7mbZ7ZCV9EF6kHh0wwxTmkc6yBZlJqbY3RGRlokm1XNL2B4rS-1X0XGXbTOon3JejK6aaL9bfL/s800/2023-10-28%2013.00.36.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXq4_GqFtCxZzMqU-AsY2kU3lHsZY8PWAt6pNxZmoEKMb3f98oJeqgm8solPTIjIULk4uVAAeEKCKkK9LnQIi81Vh6kceLxsO4uF3EvC9EpRMG3V6k-7mbZ7ZCV9EF6kHh0wwxTmkc6yBZlJqbY3RGRlokm1XNL2B4rS-1X0XGXbTOon3JejK6aaL9bfL/w482-h640/2023-10-28%2013.00.36.jpg" width="482" /></a></div><div> </div>Check it. Just this year, I saw a replica of the doll in the box at the Perron House (site of the events that inspired <i>The Conjuring</i> movie) when I toured it. I saw another replica (both doll and box) used as a spooky decoration at <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/10/haunted-overload-more-than-haunt.html" target="_blank">Haunted Overload</a>. The convention even had a oversized box set up so you could get a photo of yourself inside of it. Mark my words, within three years, Michael’s will be selling Annabelle Halloween tchotchkes. <br /><br />Unlike most of the items in the room, which you could get pretty close too, Annabelle was set farther back—maybe 20 feet—from the protective ropes. She was also flanked by an Annabelle prop from the movie. The movie version (which didn't use the Raggedy Ann IP), was an actual creepy doll designed by professionals to look creepy. And she looked less creepy than Raggedy Ann…but only because of that box.</div><div><br />Now time to focus on the next item on my lifelong bucket list: The Elephant Man’s skeleton.<div><br /></div><div>Wait a second. The medium said that the doll is haunted by a girl named Annabelle? And it's a Raggedy Ann doll? Raggedy Annabelle? It's like one of those sitcom scenes where you make up a name on the spot based on items around you. Geezus.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicREK3zapd7rBGWzHpMOl_XWCs6gFE-Fa2JtWPHvSxlpRMGg6KX9RUyP-n7aFppBv96QBhOfXAzpt-zf_IfVqSmezVAFDzZh70LcqcvwTG7nkmlYwqoVeggXSVndWT2j8W0GP4xpTPX0obTLRs_pm02oJpGb3_JlJ7bld0BVo9cBN4OPVCPRYDmRgEs4rv/s800/2023-10-28%2013.02.00.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicREK3zapd7rBGWzHpMOl_XWCs6gFE-Fa2JtWPHvSxlpRMGg6KX9RUyP-n7aFppBv96QBhOfXAzpt-zf_IfVqSmezVAFDzZh70LcqcvwTG7nkmlYwqoVeggXSVndWT2j8W0GP4xpTPX0obTLRs_pm02oJpGb3_JlJ7bld0BVo9cBN4OPVCPRYDmRgEs4rv/w480-h640/2023-10-28%2013.02.00.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JATUYXb10iGGyIJFBDiKEx1NcRr4FpASKJ-t5BJVJv1d2498vUiZ8IPZ0kmNOJ0WdmDyupIkWHYXd3V1D_FmOb7xQq3KvZTg0N7BlQVSmcPluTbVPFQlg5zbTpHmjL70onrv2r4W2gCIiKrdRBpYhzklw_oQ9C9-gYrmEGO9FyoiQgZZzxfO7qL7Hz6I/s800/2023-10-28%2013.02.47-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="601" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4JATUYXb10iGGyIJFBDiKEx1NcRr4FpASKJ-t5BJVJv1d2498vUiZ8IPZ0kmNOJ0WdmDyupIkWHYXd3V1D_FmOb7xQq3KvZTg0N7BlQVSmcPluTbVPFQlg5zbTpHmjL70onrv2r4W2gCIiKrdRBpYhzklw_oQ9C9-gYrmEGO9FyoiQgZZzxfO7qL7Hz6I/w480-h640/2023-10-28%2013.02.47-1.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_FTIfKPGzYlkR02uIZ3EDcGkTO1cMRbaF8PajuzLXJdjOlBFUJ0fYJKiIjwgvh5cirt1JQiYGnoNf0dpcLPzWx9dKLg2B-IzdtqrJ0mtEHeYNQjUWwGf1B0JjndZWqCFrb2y2RqhYYD6x5l_eicv5OQPqWEld5-gIGo_u9HPZwrYgxVQ6DvmjJf_bpndS/s800/2023-10-28%2013.03.13-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_FTIfKPGzYlkR02uIZ3EDcGkTO1cMRbaF8PajuzLXJdjOlBFUJ0fYJKiIjwgvh5cirt1JQiYGnoNf0dpcLPzWx9dKLg2B-IzdtqrJ0mtEHeYNQjUWwGf1B0JjndZWqCFrb2y2RqhYYD6x5l_eicv5OQPqWEld5-gIGo_u9HPZwrYgxVQ6DvmjJf_bpndS/w480-h640/2023-10-28%2013.03.13-1.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsk6LfisBeHInBPiCxBHrz2gQlx8x86YUkwBADJmpWIV0pKfGtyYj4PKVMUbuUe39pszufYGyJaO9CXtO5LDfG1PL8Bjg_b795_N38YnHFudF1eLejWoTocQYpi4ZWZjYh9aFfoLU5VwZK3d5k3IHhjBTlSxzMU-fWencljCj4yUwUGV4WrLkpnPWafW1w/s800/2023-10-28%2013.11.46.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsk6LfisBeHInBPiCxBHrz2gQlx8x86YUkwBADJmpWIV0pKfGtyYj4PKVMUbuUe39pszufYGyJaO9CXtO5LDfG1PL8Bjg_b795_N38YnHFudF1eLejWoTocQYpi4ZWZjYh9aFfoLU5VwZK3d5k3IHhjBTlSxzMU-fWencljCj4yUwUGV4WrLkpnPWafW1w/w480-h640/2023-10-28%2013.11.46.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFC61jmZRQxfB6w_2ExovOm_iW1QBmhK3Tois1MRd2WZZQEHG-0XWhV-GFM16MMZfzCealx-co4_AtplAyQMRy73HV0H_cGB5mF3QASgzeyrpQn9DsfAAexQXOdrzCXXv6CB8ddFlvCDjj1vOFh9RS2lZCTZwsARkaSaGvBxJPVO7s0mIAviyQvPCeSRSF/s800/2023-10-28%2013.10.35-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFC61jmZRQxfB6w_2ExovOm_iW1QBmhK3Tois1MRd2WZZQEHG-0XWhV-GFM16MMZfzCealx-co4_AtplAyQMRy73HV0H_cGB5mF3QASgzeyrpQn9DsfAAexQXOdrzCXXv6CB8ddFlvCDjj1vOFh9RS2lZCTZwsARkaSaGvBxJPVO7s0mIAviyQvPCeSRSF/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2013.10.35-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH2VcotYt7_e_PRgHA_WJGJFJM7b1KsjFctF78AzK305dXpZGby7wk64f5itFx_ln_rvzmpHGXGyRr_sYmP9VfO0a7TkUqb33oC66X1jwcDHNLjg7f8vljCUT-HyOYiOBKJiHdwggih8vxKiaWZegFU48RsSKvZUFZ5TtrXVwbaKN2Zkkim8_M-rIJFNHq/s800/2023-10-28%2013.09.14-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH2VcotYt7_e_PRgHA_WJGJFJM7b1KsjFctF78AzK305dXpZGby7wk64f5itFx_ln_rvzmpHGXGyRr_sYmP9VfO0a7TkUqb33oC66X1jwcDHNLjg7f8vljCUT-HyOYiOBKJiHdwggih8vxKiaWZegFU48RsSKvZUFZ5TtrXVwbaKN2Zkkim8_M-rIJFNHq/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2013.09.14-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbr9eqynnGXgRGHZhcEsJv8nqIAZhjnJbvwkeKouSnJSIS6S_xUZ3uWyyJea719t-qeGGqvZ5pK9lQQNdiGow3bbKXUXuZ8cKLCndL9vatxgx_A_qyYjpCPAvTmOEl7fjYHbyF-jfBH2m5bg4zsRNPtL5mWhQVWkkRuacZ7ODUx1lrlV6-TT_HDaRb1O0P/s800/2023-10-28%2013.08.29.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbr9eqynnGXgRGHZhcEsJv8nqIAZhjnJbvwkeKouSnJSIS6S_xUZ3uWyyJea719t-qeGGqvZ5pK9lQQNdiGow3bbKXUXuZ8cKLCndL9vatxgx_A_qyYjpCPAvTmOEl7fjYHbyF-jfBH2m5bg4zsRNPtL5mWhQVWkkRuacZ7ODUx1lrlV6-TT_HDaRb1O0P/w480-h640/2023-10-28%2013.08.29.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As if my family hasn't been through enough.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-72930368538062896842023-10-29T01:29:00.000-04:002023-10-29T01:29:21.609-04:00The One Candy You’ll Never Get in Your Trick-or-Treat Sack<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDs52EAhf5KUNsvgS3euXUo33nVa30Hc1vXv84G8ObpdI5fI5YDaRxFSvnxJ8pd_th-6xmb9OBAuYL96iofJkGX8VwRv1Qxp7U4NgAekQMMOA0Q8qfrUHdE6HVgLSTuYXpg5uLBws990W6K-8c9yLLIpCcpvJju-Uc9rSqLBU2p_cqNiT8EXYUml4PVG2/s800/2023-10-28%2010.49.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIDs52EAhf5KUNsvgS3euXUo33nVa30Hc1vXv84G8ObpdI5fI5YDaRxFSvnxJ8pd_th-6xmb9OBAuYL96iofJkGX8VwRv1Qxp7U4NgAekQMMOA0Q8qfrUHdE6HVgLSTuYXpg5uLBws990W6K-8c9yLLIpCcpvJju-Uc9rSqLBU2p_cqNiT8EXYUml4PVG2/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2010.49.35.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>October 28, 2023 — </i></b>I wasn’t planning on stopping at the PEZ Visitor Center. My girls and I were fleeing the <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/10/ichabod-crane-would-have-no-chance-in.html" target="_blank">Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow, New York</a>, and were on a mission to see the original Annabelle doll at a casino in Uncasville, Connecticut. But as we neared the town of Orange, Connecticut, a well-placed road sign tipped the girls off to the existence of that wonderland of cartridge-candy. They clamored for me to stop, and zero chance was I going to say no to them, even if we were stuck between two demons. It was just a great and obvious idea. Plus, I had the pull of nostalgia from having visited the place a decade ago. <br /><br />So we put off seeing the cursed object for an hour to check out a bunch of candy-filled ones. <br /><br />And when I say decade, oddly enough, I mean decade. I posted about <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2013/09/off-with-their-heads-pez-visitor-center.html" target="_blank">my original visit</a> to the PEZ Visitor Center in September 2013. At that point, I only had one daughter, who was three years old at the time. Now she’s a month from fourteen and has two siblings. A visit to the PEZ visitor center was vastly overdue. <br /><br />But, instead of rehashing that experience (they were pretty similar—with the difference of a few exhibits), I thought that in honor of the season, I would post some of the Halloween-related stuff we saw there. Like this: <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi484fu7cm7qDi189yiC7vlkGBIkM6aKaqIEfwXvc9xGEXfPmemoJCD_zzDOs0Q4d5Qbgq-DRACQPUr3GOqLpRzZypy3jHigkXqNKe5bj-ecGI4GeMn1D3tatRZTyK5OEFExvNeoW_l99bG4ey3fsMDCDcdi09oAkpMSkS1VV5EjlgVuUAo1OdoJ2PUaPTf/s800/2023-10-28%2010.27.23-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi484fu7cm7qDi189yiC7vlkGBIkM6aKaqIEfwXvc9xGEXfPmemoJCD_zzDOs0Q4d5Qbgq-DRACQPUr3GOqLpRzZypy3jHigkXqNKe5bj-ecGI4GeMn1D3tatRZTyK5OEFExvNeoW_l99bG4ey3fsMDCDcdi09oAkpMSkS1VV5EjlgVuUAo1OdoJ2PUaPTf/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2010.27.23-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdYBqDIxZO5iY6EEtbWSoJTWJ9oDYyxdK-fP76KD7Q9U4dI9L8CgEOAX1xcllBRKLgL2PV9TLF5VVG3H-diRblm7-r781LlRQ2VOxggy39VRwl-7GoxcJgg7MK0Qi_OUb7DBUyxKEGYGy9Y77IyaTleLrbHWmNmdYFiKnT2K_VJ4Cz06z1-vs9QrFpUnIu/s800/2023-10-28%2010.27.48-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdYBqDIxZO5iY6EEtbWSoJTWJ9oDYyxdK-fP76KD7Q9U4dI9L8CgEOAX1xcllBRKLgL2PV9TLF5VVG3H-diRblm7-r781LlRQ2VOxggy39VRwl-7GoxcJgg7MK0Qi_OUb7DBUyxKEGYGy9Y77IyaTleLrbHWmNmdYFiKnT2K_VJ4Cz06z1-vs9QrFpUnIu/w480-h640/2023-10-28%2010.27.48-1.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpWSHrUzuxP9eoOBjHlLykU1IHbF57YHeIcq3UNOzgxvCs_MQZotuWSezErbxRhdkrNwch1-Om_03tYZ2BUr7B_vRM-UyRlT0uVuEeLLSKhMWvuaCFMawEx7L0JT17-Ni8WqkZ61kVkHpmpb1farN8HemQbSavfw_F3VKE6693WB9kPrT6TGyN-N-TmAn/s800/2023-10-28%2010.28.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpWSHrUzuxP9eoOBjHlLykU1IHbF57YHeIcq3UNOzgxvCs_MQZotuWSezErbxRhdkrNwch1-Om_03tYZ2BUr7B_vRM-UyRlT0uVuEeLLSKhMWvuaCFMawEx7L0JT17-Ni8WqkZ61kVkHpmpb1farN8HemQbSavfw_F3VKE6693WB9kPrT6TGyN-N-TmAn/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2010.28.40.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHgRuk6wIcm90RUSuEMnO6AUEywxNsMHs9-xSch8l2mI4HZiOM5ffAkPtlRxxSm8k2yPxHZn2pCgjgWi_O8iMe2qI2aQ8J4CAISO0ZzK-Hdp9VhYqkrsFQBeYUt3ieS56xVvpWS2LMmFA0hwhBi8QQFPyu8-S57QBGcpkcgYWfU2l6KtiP8UuyskVQRNnu/s800/2023-10-28%2010.30.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHgRuk6wIcm90RUSuEMnO6AUEywxNsMHs9-xSch8l2mI4HZiOM5ffAkPtlRxxSm8k2yPxHZn2pCgjgWi_O8iMe2qI2aQ8J4CAISO0ZzK-Hdp9VhYqkrsFQBeYUt3ieS56xVvpWS2LMmFA0hwhBi8QQFPyu8-S57QBGcpkcgYWfU2l6KtiP8UuyskVQRNnu/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2010.30.21.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PkJudHKry4T7VKS-pmqseAWTLz51xoy8xDJ7BiTAVkTh2c9MeTxX_fbvFsEo6wEpR4pznPjDs4yp4fIZQr44DSm6igc3lGs-64SoMVZukzKU2bcrkQKoc06L-f_adYa8ldyJoZHVCILIufCUz-ZDi-jHuaZQMnp5ZOQEo5hMjo_edqft3meNro2wfcle/s800/2023-10-28%2010.34.05-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PkJudHKry4T7VKS-pmqseAWTLz51xoy8xDJ7BiTAVkTh2c9MeTxX_fbvFsEo6wEpR4pznPjDs4yp4fIZQr44DSm6igc3lGs-64SoMVZukzKU2bcrkQKoc06L-f_adYa8ldyJoZHVCILIufCUz-ZDi-jHuaZQMnp5ZOQEo5hMjo_edqft3meNro2wfcle/w480-h640/2023-10-28%2010.34.05-1.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNIOrZWLWAnZgELqHh3-tnTXv-b0EJ8IuAvJ81TK2afK8u7IxjnBHU_XsLbXgTeWjWLRX-_xMMJRaLFjOhsywHLfirzQINwS_-re9o8T5SFU2TJhMe7fVrgV3UyshbE4Nlm-iXwCYCVMEN5ypPhw6jrft3SQT5OfITae8w1PeekNIsFua4bH-ZSSZBuVaP/s800/2023-10-28%2010.34.45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNIOrZWLWAnZgELqHh3-tnTXv-b0EJ8IuAvJ81TK2afK8u7IxjnBHU_XsLbXgTeWjWLRX-_xMMJRaLFjOhsywHLfirzQINwS_-re9o8T5SFU2TJhMe7fVrgV3UyshbE4Nlm-iXwCYCVMEN5ypPhw6jrft3SQT5OfITae8w1PeekNIsFua4bH-ZSSZBuVaP/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2010.34.45.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvfuC1xFoGFQ5-2BEcwuiIJJnPHDINiAOrAX4aCnS0Xi1IvSG-9SHpe-UQgTCxzMz0wqG59Cx5ihHADpA69Gqf29G1HCTMiUkxcf4eSZq49bCCnZ6crt7ite-hESSNWxb9D6btMsr9NaMqL-JGBHZnuc2O46rCrrQoj-TVL79rvdz3oydZoGAC7-66p9EB/s800/2023-10-28%2010.38.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvfuC1xFoGFQ5-2BEcwuiIJJnPHDINiAOrAX4aCnS0Xi1IvSG-9SHpe-UQgTCxzMz0wqG59Cx5ihHADpA69Gqf29G1HCTMiUkxcf4eSZq49bCCnZ6crt7ite-hESSNWxb9D6btMsr9NaMqL-JGBHZnuc2O46rCrrQoj-TVL79rvdz3oydZoGAC7-66p9EB/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2010.38.56.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMVM37GZOf1HRK68W8OpeRTQoECFT_fBcPgzeufA0PVHJ5PcbbJ7Hm_yK4nu0dEH5kdfXSbVPfe33A5KsFxbvNs4_LDfiyNw1nKXpXe3tvf6UBTH3UaDh_ozdeFceVo6EmbGk3l5A8fm7wELVOmiJ9YI5_9Ke-YfX9bEVaAmpkz1X_vhkrD25s0SxgF3ub/s800/2023-10-28%2010.44.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMVM37GZOf1HRK68W8OpeRTQoECFT_fBcPgzeufA0PVHJ5PcbbJ7Hm_yK4nu0dEH5kdfXSbVPfe33A5KsFxbvNs4_LDfiyNw1nKXpXe3tvf6UBTH3UaDh_ozdeFceVo6EmbGk3l5A8fm7wELVOmiJ9YI5_9Ke-YfX9bEVaAmpkz1X_vhkrD25s0SxgF3ub/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2010.44.32.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMi_fdq0YfiWBs6U4HPRi33wb9YrqxQ34fhox_SrxmgaWcA3svg2ALHDe8NUsr7koWNdYLwdfFIQGRbjzCj8vSfJRmUQ6kIsR2gjbfYSCQ_KH7v0GrgJDS1l4yg952tg2aaoSIWygCZOW1hF_9N8N0Sn-L_qRjjNuWj-zHSTRNIQ-KHWWWnwSxlnub3Y1_/s800/2023-10-28%2010.44.41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMi_fdq0YfiWBs6U4HPRi33wb9YrqxQ34fhox_SrxmgaWcA3svg2ALHDe8NUsr7koWNdYLwdfFIQGRbjzCj8vSfJRmUQ6kIsR2gjbfYSCQ_KH7v0GrgJDS1l4yg952tg2aaoSIWygCZOW1hF_9N8N0Sn-L_qRjjNuWj-zHSTRNIQ-KHWWWnwSxlnub3Y1_/w640-h480/2023-10-28%2010.44.41.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />On our way out, we bought three coffee-cup-sized buckets of mixed PEZ and three dispensers. We didn’t use the dispensers at all, just ate the candy by the handful as we continued our trek to see Annabelle. As much as I love PEZ, it was never meant to be eaten by the handful. We all ate so much of it, the sweets started to taste like soap and our tongues were diseased with blue and red and yellow die.<br /><br />It might be another decade before I make it there again.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-30427001949830888962023-10-27T23:58:00.002-04:002023-10-28T00:00:03.980-04:00Ichabod Crane Would Have No Chance in Today’s Sleepy Hollow<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1I4B0ud-xEBqHJQJ3M0Ke1E7dE75_3MPtkHZ9sEyeA2SUk9_SM3S_kfoSXXPpTB65BULRh8KDRDzLDTSkgsbBbqs8NO0F1wk2tYeP8JeXv2MhdYeANaW0TV7zaPlM5LU7zTF9lOoJxx7QiGyiTaT7NKbplW7-ZJ7zAEyPdWfPlUl9lKL6DfYp67mmHZsT/s800/2023-10-27%2015.10.13.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1I4B0ud-xEBqHJQJ3M0Ke1E7dE75_3MPtkHZ9sEyeA2SUk9_SM3S_kfoSXXPpTB65BULRh8KDRDzLDTSkgsbBbqs8NO0F1wk2tYeP8JeXv2MhdYeANaW0TV7zaPlM5LU7zTF9lOoJxx7QiGyiTaT7NKbplW7-ZJ7zAEyPdWfPlUl9lKL6DfYp67mmHZsT/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2015.10.13.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>October 27, 2023 — </i></b>Headless horsemen galloped everywhere. An entire heard of them. On murals and advertisements. On Halloween décor and in gift shops. On street signs and business names. Kicking up colorful leaves under the hooves of their steeds and brandishing flaming jack-o-lanterns in their hands. <br /><br />Ichabod Crane would have had no chance in today’s Sleepy Hollow. Especially at this time of year.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisB7IuOjCXV5OapOMR7VwswSY9cR4KUc0edum00Cq88Iyqc7G5DALMe1X57LdnjJAuRPBd_8Vfk0BZ2SG66-GyViRgBMBjywFyWCKIU7R-fitt-6KNA1RPj3-I3kciN_NkE4t5uS80_3r0XZ7CpUp869UpIE9N3mwxsvswcnMPS_5ilCDtP_49LnbM0n_E/s800/2023-10-27%2012.59.35.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisB7IuOjCXV5OapOMR7VwswSY9cR4KUc0edum00Cq88Iyqc7G5DALMe1X57LdnjJAuRPBd_8Vfk0BZ2SG66-GyViRgBMBjywFyWCKIU7R-fitt-6KNA1RPj3-I3kciN_NkE4t5uS80_3r0XZ7CpUp869UpIE9N3mwxsvswcnMPS_5ilCDtP_49LnbM0n_E/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2012.59.35.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div>We drove through town, following the chase route along Broadway, from the Major Andre statue to the bridge and past the Old Dutch Church into one of my favorite cemeteries in the country. It was crowded, as it always is at this time of year, so many cars it was almost more parking lots than grave plots. But the trees were aflame with the fires of fall, a bower of red, yellow, and orange beauty over the similarly multi-colored dead below. We drove past all the old haunts—Washington Irving’s grave and the Headless Horseman Bridge and the historic plaque—but didn’t stop and get out until we found ourselves in a less traveled and less trammeled part of the cemetery, where we met up with the Bronze Lady, Sleepy Hollow’s resident cursed object. We were nice to her, although my middle child lingered longer as we walked away, trying to be extra nice to her. <br /><br />We left the cemetery, pausing for a moment to wonder whether we should take our one millionth photo with the gorgeous sculpture of the chase scene that looms outside the cemetery gates, but then continued to downtown Tarrytown, where we parked and tarried. We took photos of all the scarecrows tied to the lampposts, gazed at all the spooky art painted on the glass windows of the shops, stopped for ice cream, and considered buying our one millionth Headless Horseman souvenir. But overall, we just took in the feel of a town vibrating on the edge of their annual Halloween parade.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhogRjmLhR8XWQ8DEhUeiBW1XWsR3yZkvuq0atGqPIL5_ZERr9r6ZnmX0-RorXTVEPfDSc2de304VfY7MJi5YNbYc99W08YksUSX6x25Znlq1lany1aH6thCzGsiAg9vC-sCXdnY-WaaRFctMy8BZRVpLXgmTScYenae8AhvHqmRonU7uUgky5zvch8_oET/s800/2023-10-27%2013.47.40.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhogRjmLhR8XWQ8DEhUeiBW1XWsR3yZkvuq0atGqPIL5_ZERr9r6ZnmX0-RorXTVEPfDSc2de304VfY7MJi5YNbYc99W08YksUSX6x25Znlq1lany1aH6thCzGsiAg9vC-sCXdnY-WaaRFctMy8BZRVpLXgmTScYenae8AhvHqmRonU7uUgky5zvch8_oET/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2013.47.40.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div>From there, it was on to Lyndhurst Mansion, a castle so gothically perfect it was chosen as the home of the ghouls and haunts and romances of the two <i>Dark Shadows</i> movies. There, a room full of people ignored the bounty of Halloween adventure that Sleepy Hollow has to offer to listen to me make a case for which city is the better Halloween Town, Sleepy Hollow or Salem. One day I’ll share my stringently quantitative findings with a larger audience. <br /><br />After Lyndhurst, it should have been dinner at Horsefeathers and then a winddown at our hotel, but we decided to see an old friend instead. We crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge out of Sleepy Hollow. As we did so, my middle child surreptitiously lowered her window. I shot her a questioning look, and she said, “We just visited a cursed object, Dad. If this bridge goes down and we fall into the water we need to be able to swim out of the car.” Her wisdom was a mixture of YouTube how-to’s and that <i>Final Destination</i> marathon we did a couple of weeks back.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12uZHMAYOrnyNtzq1-yVC84eIvdLjqXt2zEPAHnGkXUxxl7vmKia4Kf59Muf-mIUtrwtZD4-7cRK8Mgi-Fnfsu0PbmXrRV8vqxQfI4C-K9o7tUko_8pKnfmBYJdC3wRBbU9dR2h2lavTEcWFn1s5zlTEbbF_zsm7LOAqvJhXjl_mb5QQRfD880Uqrt7VE/s800/2023-10-27%2013.14.39-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="601" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12uZHMAYOrnyNtzq1-yVC84eIvdLjqXt2zEPAHnGkXUxxl7vmKia4Kf59Muf-mIUtrwtZD4-7cRK8Mgi-Fnfsu0PbmXrRV8vqxQfI4C-K9o7tUko_8pKnfmBYJdC3wRBbU9dR2h2lavTEcWFn1s5zlTEbbF_zsm7LOAqvJhXjl_mb5QQRfD880Uqrt7VE/w480-h640/2023-10-27%2013.14.39-1.jpg" width="480" /></a> </div><br />An hour drive took us to Middletown, New York, to the Paramount Theater, where a three-day horrorthon was in progress. Out in the lobby of that august movie temple, a table full of props from classic horror and science fiction movies was lovingly attended by their caretaker Joey Vento of Haunted Barn fame. I met Joey when I wrote about his collection for <i>The New York Grimpendium</i> fourteen years ago. After a magic visit where the past of old movies collided with the present of my young daughters and old friends deepened their friendship, we drove back to the hotel. <br /><br />Last year, we did almost the exact same Sleepy Hollow jaunt, but with a fifth member of our party, their heart ugly and poisoned with bad secrets and treacheries, their blank face and smile a concrete Halloween mask against reality and beauty.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_DvfWiRo58401KR9vUfSjECM06g0AZ_Kji16FI96w1HR22yRCLBZpJz0v_f5D-v5S_q5rgFDcViEBKKfnv_FBq1hL1pB7qjJwRQc6FeYZSFTYlhd0b88v34Z7sEkPr13CWYtk4nmeaTHJ7Hh9qt6OFoNUmfYaNjs1HHiM_sEVwokFSn_PRsNRic-j_66D/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2014.08.44-1.jpg" width="640" /> </div><br />Which is why I’m ecstatic that today was not just a great autumn day, a great Halloween day, but a great day full stop. The shadows of the past were chased away by the larger shadow of the Horseman, if only temporarily. At the very least, I don’t know how a broken, middle-aged dude and three beautifully chaotic daughters could have done it better. I don’t know how many could have done better. <br /><br />The girls are all passed out in the hotel room as I write this. They didn’t even make it through <i>Hocus Pocus</i> on Freeform. I’m barely making it through <i>Bride of Frankenstein</i> on TCM. The exhaustion is settled into my own skeleton as I post this. Boris Karloff just told his bride, “We belong dead,” and blew up the castle. <br /><br />And, as loathe as I am to end this day, I belong dead…asleep.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFpORswfFobQAmlZNmljKfzS18XHke8-9sVexV1h4FQC3-78c83kPsBHaaIFU7lcb3vtrzimUkcPNjI4CBAUn4awx644LZ2f3NwZIZUNuCwGFQGJnbodijKeXhupMXB7lZTyUgPgJsD2j-XDtEQ6GyaHHlSXRdBcd4vMkqO2-OFk2MYSgDqHqs0SGZxjtw/s800/2023-10-27%2013.16.44.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFpORswfFobQAmlZNmljKfzS18XHke8-9sVexV1h4FQC3-78c83kPsBHaaIFU7lcb3vtrzimUkcPNjI4CBAUn4awx644LZ2f3NwZIZUNuCwGFQGJnbodijKeXhupMXB7lZTyUgPgJsD2j-XDtEQ6GyaHHlSXRdBcd4vMkqO2-OFk2MYSgDqHqs0SGZxjtw/w480-h640/2023-10-27%2013.16.44.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59HdXNxAd2qZ9hpzm1ePHbDlb022_uz2yR0Zz48FAGAteWqbjwjFXL2PEL9Rhsti3rlNJDiajHQiYaNz0RXJMWRozo_jvfiJd915NBXiQeF12c90Yl1jzSauJsDdv1A_3WwG85iw7yHqpXnGciy0RYH1FSst1u3PMt5mhJuqoPd_ndSVo71iP7NtPZ7eH/s800/2023-10-27%2014.20.18.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59HdXNxAd2qZ9hpzm1ePHbDlb022_uz2yR0Zz48FAGAteWqbjwjFXL2PEL9Rhsti3rlNJDiajHQiYaNz0RXJMWRozo_jvfiJd915NBXiQeF12c90Yl1jzSauJsDdv1A_3WwG85iw7yHqpXnGciy0RYH1FSst1u3PMt5mhJuqoPd_ndSVo71iP7NtPZ7eH/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2014.20.18.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxhpHihBusUwcCVVyRem3wO7fd-WgsqTxlwh5cBuZNYU6i9eXsAZCGLQMNbdBEt8Oh7GDGyC9tcqelCN-ZGwmBDw4fQrm3TA_SsXkhubT8vFoLAEMvQezhGRU7esEQd04KjCmatNkozyLB2wY_DjsBjpbu4fYYhTbc7qomnQIzzkr_L3-vvNulvHH792C/s800/2023-10-27%2014.23.28-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxhpHihBusUwcCVVyRem3wO7fd-WgsqTxlwh5cBuZNYU6i9eXsAZCGLQMNbdBEt8Oh7GDGyC9tcqelCN-ZGwmBDw4fQrm3TA_SsXkhubT8vFoLAEMvQezhGRU7esEQd04KjCmatNkozyLB2wY_DjsBjpbu4fYYhTbc7qomnQIzzkr_L3-vvNulvHH792C/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2014.23.28-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbqLDtl4yBOLPdsyCMFATQi2TMkAD_yZraODzUdYmdJSzYqipYVadSaTjbqFRVEDqkCe8dmbhInBSd7kHS6xpkHznc43-6eQiXjzecotqd1LAsO1hrTQNZnMeMfqxMBJqrRfM_A17UG0Uitto7K-TIg4Zxv0XCmiqmTP9sc7KGs3mKQIjkFLlCPltMWkV/s800/2023-10-27%2014.51.09.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbqLDtl4yBOLPdsyCMFATQi2TMkAD_yZraODzUdYmdJSzYqipYVadSaTjbqFRVEDqkCe8dmbhInBSd7kHS6xpkHznc43-6eQiXjzecotqd1LAsO1hrTQNZnMeMfqxMBJqrRfM_A17UG0Uitto7K-TIg4Zxv0XCmiqmTP9sc7KGs3mKQIjkFLlCPltMWkV/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2014.51.09.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_uexcyGICdPBS9n1eA03gimLx1CuJCCkgYAMHBV01x_OHLaxKyfn88Qq_qRobqtXvbZj3miNcH0gciI7zmdOFMOwz_d1317V96bJju9qjfTSnHMAafk6jLd6wJTw8mKp6JwMjQwF1EgKRhbHJXzNyVThfc9J71pDpvnaBMFCLPyJA2zPvQwBczM0sgz1/s800/2023-10-27%2016.45.09.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_uexcyGICdPBS9n1eA03gimLx1CuJCCkgYAMHBV01x_OHLaxKyfn88Qq_qRobqtXvbZj3miNcH0gciI7zmdOFMOwz_d1317V96bJju9qjfTSnHMAafk6jLd6wJTw8mKp6JwMjQwF1EgKRhbHJXzNyVThfc9J71pDpvnaBMFCLPyJA2zPvQwBczM0sgz1/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2016.45.09.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaD4ASk9K19bICFKbho5eF1bcbZvsYJuzsuBEL2BT17d-Cdpyx_NdlHo2fOiJZ2X8eBge9zvO7voLkbhi8X_sCWjHPP5itmvgli06ZvaX_-j-zxdZqedXE2K6mDU7JVa-i0sM2ANTr1AF_wRSREef8BoaYbhlsqzixH9SeRinRtV1YiPKXNMu3Z56XdC7E/s800/2023-10-27%2016.54.10.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaD4ASk9K19bICFKbho5eF1bcbZvsYJuzsuBEL2BT17d-Cdpyx_NdlHo2fOiJZ2X8eBge9zvO7voLkbhi8X_sCWjHPP5itmvgli06ZvaX_-j-zxdZqedXE2K6mDU7JVa-i0sM2ANTr1AF_wRSREef8BoaYbhlsqzixH9SeRinRtV1YiPKXNMu3Z56XdC7E/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2016.54.10.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdKF0zPjFXFdh00oJ2JkbNIDVXldbbloYiQph0mu8Bv3fn7TfdYG4e5kMfd9Kq09kvoklTBdjIXfKAap3gzFxsddWsUa821A50oyjJXvuhGG8WqsP_rqvKfJP6DWy3aXuumMQeVpYRDv6CU4qDO3JQIa0gcstBHYKa6tl7fKb2AJQ6GH95Q35hAOMPjee/s800/2023-10-27%2018.44.58.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdKF0zPjFXFdh00oJ2JkbNIDVXldbbloYiQph0mu8Bv3fn7TfdYG4e5kMfd9Kq09kvoklTBdjIXfKAap3gzFxsddWsUa821A50oyjJXvuhGG8WqsP_rqvKfJP6DWy3aXuumMQeVpYRDv6CU4qDO3JQIa0gcstBHYKa6tl7fKb2AJQ6GH95Q35hAOMPjee/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2018.44.58.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LeEvZ7wIREhK_E5LzIjYRn3q3GFuLqiTawgBncfXYXQt48oMjVAZIIoLnZ9MrYyamYrAJwk_HkZyFvMIToRYmfFTQ_Fvyc8V8Kgfhcp89c9Xk5VfZTW5CkiYUQzHZWG3s2naAElydcg74_m7nPFCE5Fpdz31K1Z3VNgLdq1BZzXYLR4TfTy4keH-n4BK/s800/2023-10-27%2019.04.35-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LeEvZ7wIREhK_E5LzIjYRn3q3GFuLqiTawgBncfXYXQt48oMjVAZIIoLnZ9MrYyamYrAJwk_HkZyFvMIToRYmfFTQ_Fvyc8V8Kgfhcp89c9Xk5VfZTW5CkiYUQzHZWG3s2naAElydcg74_m7nPFCE5Fpdz31K1Z3VNgLdq1BZzXYLR4TfTy4keH-n4BK/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2019.04.35-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8b_8BybAFyqTcTWVJEcH0RlkUise6-eA07bBP0k5-5JzcQHyZjW_8F0aQyq-dFOctPuNfHjRQRWHQx4BXBpKTCcO_I_VoLD-L225_ma1o08JSB-7PSPE5E_WgLy8_ao8kVTOfz71bVlT3q_Oa-vRPjir8QkEqdpAXQO57sfeQAO_wMKd0GGYl4HaG0jv/s800/2023-10-27%2019.12.55.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8b_8BybAFyqTcTWVJEcH0RlkUise6-eA07bBP0k5-5JzcQHyZjW_8F0aQyq-dFOctPuNfHjRQRWHQx4BXBpKTCcO_I_VoLD-L225_ma1o08JSB-7PSPE5E_WgLy8_ao8kVTOfz71bVlT3q_Oa-vRPjir8QkEqdpAXQO57sfeQAO_wMKd0GGYl4HaG0jv/w640-h480/2023-10-27%2019.12.55.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-45113893912576923972023-10-26T10:43:00.004-04:002023-10-26T11:31:10.172-04:00There are FOUR Jack-o-Lanterns!<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxi_YNQ8pSO6G0aPVHr4ywM5vMmmXFhw42HkEIMqt84zpLeMoCruetcDcIlGsj4aqYrctbUzH6g1_9EQGQcFNr7w1JBGwFgawtTIusDJc76TU4zH_1uQ_UxXekEV34wpKiRtRMWlY-ParSSmgYC1K-ipOy3xa4L7A_HU6GS4MWoWbO1IK2esAoSOw0tZ8E/s800/2023-10-25%2019.55.46.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxi_YNQ8pSO6G0aPVHr4ywM5vMmmXFhw42HkEIMqt84zpLeMoCruetcDcIlGsj4aqYrctbUzH6g1_9EQGQcFNr7w1JBGwFgawtTIusDJc76TU4zH_1uQ_UxXekEV34wpKiRtRMWlY-ParSSmgYC1K-ipOy3xa4L7A_HU6GS4MWoWbO1IK2esAoSOw0tZ8E/w640-h480/2023-10-25%2019.55.46.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>October 26, 2023 — </i></b>We almost didn’t carve jack-o-lanterns this year. Since I only see the girls about a third of the time, it was difficult to fit it in among our other activities. Also, Halloween weekend is going to be a busy one for us, spread as it is across three states and various events. The girls also hadn’t carved them anywhere else either, for some reason. It made me sad. In fact, I’d almost consoled myself with the fact that we’d randomly carved <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=630267955755490&set=pb.100063168731562.-2207520000&type=3" target="_blank">jack-o-melons in August</a>. <br /><br />But I couldn’t skip it. It’s a defining moment of the season. Not farm stand visits or watching scary movies or road trips or corn mazes or haunted houses or even trick-or-treating. It’s the one ritual that really sums up everything about the holiday, all in a neat round orange sphere. So, on a whim while driving them home from school, we stopped at a farm and nabbed four pumpkins in record time. We then went home, threw on <i>Casper</i>, and went to town with knives and spoons, guts flying, serrated edges sawing, casual glances up at the movie as we wielded dangerous implements. <br /><br />My youngest got obsessed with the little white pumpkins at the farm and just wanted a Jack Skellington head. My oldest went overboard as always, using about a dozen different tools and her own recipe for blood. “Corn syrup. Same stuff they use for pig's blood in Carrie,” she said, quoting one of my favorite movies to my face. My middle child got frustrated when the carving didn’t match up with her drawing and vision. They all go through that phase. I just did the fastest face I could possibly do, so that I would have time to carve the youngest’s pumpkin and help out with the other two, as needed (I wasn’t needed). <br /><br />Over the past fifteen years of having a family, it has been awesome to watch our jack-o-lantern harvest grow. First, it was just two of them, one for me and one for my wife, then three jack-o-lanterns, then four, then five, with each child getting more and more independent in the planning and then getting more and more demanding around freedom with the carving knife. And every one of those nights is documented on the<a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/p/halloween-2010.html" target="_blank"> OTIS Halloween blog</a> over the years. <br /><br />And now we are back to four. I almost carved a sad jack-o-lantern. <br /><br />But I am extremely happy to see them glowing evilly on my front porch together.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtAM9LgHu4GpdIJG9kmGKeOXfvjcr2AwgozD0osC3JqcWPBpfkQyHjLaL26bBQHare3ZgBT2tNa3zX2HwD5__FbWB7zOd4E_berORnd_ZXszO6XskNprpATQeTk8fvWmFXr_t1H80P_R6xhFQnYZyTHxVqlgwVBDJUw30evSz6Dw0GV_4wFvvGtI59Nhig/s800/2023-10-25%2020.12.35.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="800" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtAM9LgHu4GpdIJG9kmGKeOXfvjcr2AwgozD0osC3JqcWPBpfkQyHjLaL26bBQHare3ZgBT2tNa3zX2HwD5__FbWB7zOd4E_berORnd_ZXszO6XskNprpATQeTk8fvWmFXr_t1H80P_R6xhFQnYZyTHxVqlgwVBDJUw30evSz6Dw0GV_4wFvvGtI59Nhig/w640-h482/2023-10-25%2020.12.35.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-68357073834879863152023-10-25T10:18:00.000-04:002023-10-25T10:18:17.309-04:00Two Photos, Two Decades, One Salem<b><i>October 26, 2023 — </i></b>My oldest daughter and I were in Salem the other night for a Halloween party. At one point, as we wandered the dark, blustery streets that had been freshly power-washed by a day’s worth of downpour, she wanted to get a photo of herself in front of the Salem Witch Museum. She hadn’t been to Salem at night since she was a small child and rightly dug the dramatic red glow of the museum’s front windows. She chose a spot across the street—on the edge of the common against a concrete post. <br /><br />I immediately felt a strong sese of dejavu and nostalgia and ache. It only took me a few seconds to realize why. The first time I had ever visited Salem in my life, I had taken the exact same photo in the exact same spot. That visit would have been in October 2004, five years before her birth. <br /><br />I told her about that random firing in my brain, and she asked if I still had the photo on me. Because my enter life is online, I was able to pull it up quickly from an <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2008/10/salem-ma.html" target="_blank">OTIS post</a> about the jaunt (although the jaunt was three years before I launched OTIS). She restrained herself from any comments on my beardless face and then mimicked my pose for her photo. <br /><br />Now I have these two photos, taken nineteen years apart, set against the same old Salem.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_OMl505-tM/SPZ23pQGwFI/AAAAAAAABZk/dOQdUCV3q_I/s540/Salem-OTIS.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_OMl505-tM/SPZ23pQGwFI/AAAAAAAABZk/dOQdUCV3q_I/w640-h426/Salem-OTIS.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo9UJZqjkkaAK6tcM6E6ugbGzCQi2VJQecg7ja9FJBXQXs31p6XmWb7z6rQ0VKB0qI3zB7Ak6u7oeKSnOGre_TXAZI7r_Ijhi0Yr1IWCVgkofOBBcIcAi8v1Z5WmERw-t8Th7nK5DMOArvhhz1RSR1W6kcge134hPXqL4yyVgh32o_M0nZCUBptruImRLu/s3468/2023-10-21%2021.26.53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3468" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo9UJZqjkkaAK6tcM6E6ugbGzCQi2VJQecg7ja9FJBXQXs31p6XmWb7z6rQ0VKB0qI3zB7Ak6u7oeKSnOGre_TXAZI7r_Ijhi0Yr1IWCVgkofOBBcIcAi8v1Z5WmERw-t8Th7nK5DMOArvhhz1RSR1W6kcge134hPXqL4yyVgh32o_M0nZCUBptruImRLu/w640-h478/2023-10-21%2021.26.53.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Oh, and while it might appear that the main difference between the two photos is the time of day/night, the real difference is that mine was taken with a tripod, a digital camera, and an almost paralyzing amount of awkwardness and embarrassment since that was a pre-selfie world. Life used to be so hard.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-22419256728021684102023-10-22T10:47:00.003-04:002023-10-22T12:54:24.592-04:00The October Ocker<div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" footprint="" height="480" otis.jpg="" s="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ0a5W_YmD0k0uoKrcVtPOW6_0k41cvpUZ8F52cp67p5cb3fK3hd37bmhpf_Go2lTOQrZH5xZXHBCofv30VCIGtnrx5hzFuXGR-JmGBjMI9C5uCQvVk0-qFaRYITyOHsJD2sEh7bQFE5-jfDpTNENk8UZtQXEh4WAvmyp_47hTQ25Ep8VFc8hGUk5aO3QA/w640-h480/Devil" width="640" /></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>October 22, 2023 — </i></b>Happy birthday to my youngest! Five years ago today, her mother and I walked into the hospital not knowing if we were having a boy or a girl. We had prepared a girl’s name in advance (and I assume a boy’s, although I forget what it was), so when the baby appeared, I got to introduce it to her mom. “It’s Olive,” I told her, like we’d known this baby all our lives. And then we gave her the middle name Autumn, which we had originally wanted to give to our eldest as a middle name, but she overshot her November due date by a day. She got Noelle.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7rGkyWaUbGwH9OUi6_EMoUnsVhGD7VbID8lIrjvsSgABCrr-rlHJ0dNf9_-iGX66PqCEzirvihXf3_0eyW4Ts45UXaoR1CfFFLK4eR80G-yBDpkE9MadvFIL0NwxFsvt51vuPKg6RCExe3KpaAHrdwKfTi3CdNDro9YHlqbNqdI9CQa5oT0faazUwX-Ie/s800/Halloween%20Dieary%20169_OTIS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7rGkyWaUbGwH9OUi6_EMoUnsVhGD7VbID8lIrjvsSgABCrr-rlHJ0dNf9_-iGX66PqCEzirvihXf3_0eyW4Ts45UXaoR1CfFFLK4eR80G-yBDpkE9MadvFIL0NwxFsvt51vuPKg6RCExe3KpaAHrdwKfTi3CdNDro9YHlqbNqdI9CQa5oT0faazUwX-Ie/w480-h640/Halloween%20Dieary%20169_OTIS.jpg" width="480" /></a> </div><br />For the next couple of days after her birth, I <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2018/10/halloween-die-ary-october-23-2018.html" target="_blank">wandered the hospital</a>, taking photos of Halloween decorations and pretending I was dodging Michael Myers in <i>Halloween II</i>, while Olive slept with the exhaustion of being alive and her mother slept with the exhaustion of making something alive. I felt alive. I mean, we officially had a big family. The kids outnumbered the adults. We had made our own tiny community and ensured we would have someone living with us until at least 2036. She was the finishing touch on the fine art that was our family. <br /><br />She was only three years old when the bomb dropped and decimated us. That this family was irrevocably damaged and she would never know the original version of it. Or that maybe the whole thing had been a sham from the start.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkjxekpvtyFO7FUTg_KTjNgLcsbExP6t2wrD5FBcYQ_c9Gr0PKO4wovZDOCrADkj00yBiASTwY4eHkV1guVGm7hjIeBlV8crYf7N6s0Yqi1bv-2ll1mT3DzyO0Hft4-NMdAs4tIV3rvR2qhBoPdYyi48biYdKHMg8rnGKkQ0PYVqce7PqjaWiyebc6KpZ/s2048/99117562_10157077746775969_2071925320608382976_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1366" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkjxekpvtyFO7FUTg_KTjNgLcsbExP6t2wrD5FBcYQ_c9Gr0PKO4wovZDOCrADkj00yBiASTwY4eHkV1guVGm7hjIeBlV8crYf7N6s0Yqi1bv-2ll1mT3DzyO0Hft4-NMdAs4tIV3rvR2qhBoPdYyi48biYdKHMg8rnGKkQ0PYVqce7PqjaWiyebc6KpZ/w426-h640/99117562_10157077746775969_2071925320608382976_n.jpg" width="426" /></a> </div><br />“She’ll never know what it’s like to be the Ockers,” my oldest told me during one of our commiserations about the state of things. And it’s sad. I’ve seen the benefits of strange trips and passions-worn-on-the-sleeves and weird adventures and a book life on the older two. How they’ve grown up curious and interesting and tender people. And the only thing I really ever taught them is that the world is weird. Of course, in the past year, their mother taught them far more about the world than I ever would or could. <br /><br />As to Olive, she embraces her Halloween birthday, always asking for bat- or pumpkin-shaped cakes and Halloween balloons. She loves <i>The Nightmare Before Christmas</i> and sings “This is Halloween” at random moments as she wanders the house or lies in bed. She told me she wanted a remote-controlled bat for a present, but that doesn’t exist in our reality yet, so I bought her a remote-controlled snake. She’s having two birthday celebrations this year.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSffDHMoWV46nTVBmFYdyw_UVNC8ph-22fC5F3yZBdzWxRd5zts7HTlsaGMK267nCofZfr38FRmHPTCCpdwdynItYxUvBCsKKajgHENqXU2B6fTNl2eah0Feqim2Zk1XTI4aINs04fP9xPF1NZI6C2nnM2h6o_gybk4UZH-ZJIDY1wDxR-5Roh-Uu8N516/w480-h640/Deerfield%20Fair%207__OTIS.jpg" width="480" /> </div><br />Of course, that Halloween love is still tinged by the fact that she’s young and hates anything scary. The other two girls were like that at her age, too, but at some point became as obsessed as I. These days, because of bifurcated parenting, it’s difficult to get one-on-one time with each daughter, so we end up being a democracy/tyranny of the majority and doing what the older two want, which is invariably spooky stuff. “Why do you like scary stuff?” Olive plaintively asks me sometimes, like we only do so to torment her. But also because everything is scary for her now. <br /><br />For almost all of us.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQHYMD9fZy4roOMY7EjVvnen_Eg_rHaudrHGA7WgQjSdgXiIMEblKSuHMyCSzh6QuRIRTbBBPDn4os_CNjLY5HxZPq8p7qmeikn_mXcZBVthv9c0ndyi130RK31bb_T0k3FlenU9rwOSh4ndCXMHrKufcCt9aMpjRV5yu-Z5VQ6iwSc2_kniKb3hCd0Dyg/s532/2023-09-031.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="399" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQHYMD9fZy4roOMY7EjVvnen_Eg_rHaudrHGA7WgQjSdgXiIMEblKSuHMyCSzh6QuRIRTbBBPDn4os_CNjLY5HxZPq8p7qmeikn_mXcZBVthv9c0ndyi130RK31bb_T0k3FlenU9rwOSh4ndCXMHrKufcCt9aMpjRV5yu-Z5VQ6iwSc2_kniKb3hCd0Dyg/w480-h640/2023-09-031.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTHq3gUKyQGm0DdEbH30Ffhozil6QZcFBu3xPpJ9vrd6mq66VYksYgdzCiiSOgmG7KWdo8eu1rcht38A3xnTQKLkreLjyVHaYxshvDFoCTceRbfYSoOyrwy1j00X8AKj0NDLYHuxHCtNqn11z8Ou605KMqZfU6cgXVJjM3EGYHyX6ZAT2wh8rvvcgUmwoP/s2048/F8wjKsvXcAAFnNL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1574" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTHq3gUKyQGm0DdEbH30Ffhozil6QZcFBu3xPpJ9vrd6mq66VYksYgdzCiiSOgmG7KWdo8eu1rcht38A3xnTQKLkreLjyVHaYxshvDFoCTceRbfYSoOyrwy1j00X8AKj0NDLYHuxHCtNqn11z8Ou605KMqZfU6cgXVJjM3EGYHyX6ZAT2wh8rvvcgUmwoP/w492-h640/F8wjKsvXcAAFnNL.jpg" width="492" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-77541819057953438932023-10-21T15:13:00.002-04:002023-10-21T15:15:31.099-04:00Weathervein: The Spalding Memorial School Bat<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqtN8BUdJmW9X9BST1cDqnT24Ey0044E3ecwHAYHlbQDWcd9EN_ZN-wstme_Y490mWsSDajKWGgdp26gCy5XjWWjw_YpHcFJ_6IFq_rA6kYZRYAlPXCkGCg2OYqzZmUnfhtVMKoBDnXIe9_luCvEloJ3OFI3Qyo2uPRIYpX-h5jve-kSvgjKQ-Mcg3AsR/s800/IMG_0117.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqtN8BUdJmW9X9BST1cDqnT24Ey0044E3ecwHAYHlbQDWcd9EN_ZN-wstme_Y490mWsSDajKWGgdp26gCy5XjWWjw_YpHcFJ_6IFq_rA6kYZRYAlPXCkGCg2OYqzZmUnfhtVMKoBDnXIe9_luCvEloJ3OFI3Qyo2uPRIYpX-h5jve-kSvgjKQ-Mcg3AsR/w640-h480/IMG_0117.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><b><i>October 21, 2023 — </i></b>If you drive through the town of Townsend in the northern area of central Massachusetts, you will see a middling, two-story brick edifice that is one of the town’s elementary schools, Spalding Memorial. If you look above the small, two-story brick edifice that is Spalding Memorial School, you will see a bat perched atop a cupola. Not because there’s a bat roost up there. And not because it’s the season to hang bats from roofs. That bat’s been up there for almost a hundred years. <br /><br />It’s a weathervane—north, south, west, evil. Or maybe a weathervein (which you should be reading aloud with a Transylvania Twist).<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtVphczvummIIPYOghzYpp4R9C6A2RomQE8eyihjgE4C7Hh9XkiUV2udVUQ2EDxrIHgwuHeA0DWYboUR0u6uVv3l-YUaoRITJaoHeMeJ99t_invnQSzQNEmWahMPYkmiKzD2xyeOdp-WSOWvEdeBn-KvosNW8mmDXkDfYMxOKeD5TrvBwHWaZ6jo-hINIZ/s800/DSC00207.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtVphczvummIIPYOghzYpp4R9C6A2RomQE8eyihjgE4C7Hh9XkiUV2udVUQ2EDxrIHgwuHeA0DWYboUR0u6uVv3l-YUaoRITJaoHeMeJ99t_invnQSzQNEmWahMPYkmiKzD2xyeOdp-WSOWvEdeBn-KvosNW8mmDXkDfYMxOKeD5TrvBwHWaZ6jo-hINIZ/w640-h428/DSC00207.JPG" width="640" /></a> </div>I know what you’re thinking. A school with a bat weathervane must have a bat for a mascot. But that’s, um, too cool for this school. They’re patriots. Because that’s what everybody in Massachusetts is. <br /><br />Truth actually is, nobody knows why there’s a large metal bat atop the school. According to the <a href="https://www.nmrsd.org/domain/259" target="_blank">school website</a>, the prevailing theory is that it was a mistake. They meant to order an owl, symbol of knowledge and annoyingly repetitive questions, but received a bat instead, so they just stuck it on the roof with a shrug.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi5gcB584crWFonBsr2J8EWpKZagVxcRjVUQy_Gg2TPo0zgs0xqoMchDgdMa6a8Am27xDwEQbegUC0R9D6ZaUw5F2pIXdYGIxLSWwDt68_4HugZMie7b2wxCDfvht0a86yNRoZX3gnt1N6o5KGjonGQbFt0bZfCmOFBK2Oeh0a03AfKNLmcDMUcnYqLueY/s800/DSC00208.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi5gcB584crWFonBsr2J8EWpKZagVxcRjVUQy_Gg2TPo0zgs0xqoMchDgdMa6a8Am27xDwEQbegUC0R9D6ZaUw5F2pIXdYGIxLSWwDt68_4HugZMie7b2wxCDfvht0a86yNRoZX3gnt1N6o5KGjonGQbFt0bZfCmOFBK2Oeh0a03AfKNLmcDMUcnYqLueY/w640-h428/DSC00208.JPG" width="640" /></a> </div><div><br /></div>Another less plausible theory is that it was an act of revenge. The school was started in the early 1930s—sometime around the debut of Universal Studio’s Dracula, in fact—by a $250,000 donation from a pair of brothers named Huntley and Roland Spaulding. The school was to be a memorial to their parents. However, they envisaged a much bigger school than what they got for their investment. Out of spite, they topped the building with that metal Chiroptera to signify that the people of Townsend are batshit, bat in the belfry, crazy like a bat for not helping them bring about their dream memorial.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqPLIhl9Ut1uHD_xnFXzR_u4uTSKuiCke3LWIefoMKEQLVBC5W78X3I_1AHR-2i3sjBi2naBiaWPYoSKDrLLBMo3nnPWVTj8i0JoKAo3oTD11EllT3UCBv94Sd7ArYPhtDpiRDQnINz1SxENYnAh4FpltHYG52D-mr8oshIiN-EC2TlPjkIbJKAZqeARu/s800/IMG_0106.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqPLIhl9Ut1uHD_xnFXzR_u4uTSKuiCke3LWIefoMKEQLVBC5W78X3I_1AHR-2i3sjBi2naBiaWPYoSKDrLLBMo3nnPWVTj8i0JoKAo3oTD11EllT3UCBv94Sd7ArYPhtDpiRDQnINz1SxENYnAh4FpltHYG52D-mr8oshIiN-EC2TlPjkIbJKAZqeARu/w640-h480/IMG_0106.JPG" width="640" /></a> </div><div><br /></div>Either way, when it comes to a one hundred year old bats atop schools, the more important fact is that it exists. And it isn’t some two-dimensional novelty from a specialty Halloween store. It’s a full-on bat statue, a few feet tall based on my (admittedly untrustworthy) estimate from the ground. Like they could take it down and make it the centerpiece of their courtyard. Although then they would have to make it their mascot. <br /><br />And then they’d have to call themselves Ghoul School, and then I’d have to come coach the volleyball team. Scooby-dooby-doo.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7_DfFWn6ojmtWWOq1CG3Ztx__0YNW-bxfrVaY2YMKO2GKbV8DwIbbL8qWP8f_m8bWcQkzvkswD85R4xj7LuDNr0v0T1YtpE__wm3kzHNv2xQ7giQ3QdZlIBtgp_RbOBEY-BLNAMuO6UCE43EBytEhhskTMlSOUikvrAxW6EnehGM76vjHLtI8afqWqLS/s800/IMG_0115.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7_DfFWn6ojmtWWOq1CG3Ztx__0YNW-bxfrVaY2YMKO2GKbV8DwIbbL8qWP8f_m8bWcQkzvkswD85R4xj7LuDNr0v0T1YtpE__wm3kzHNv2xQ7giQ3QdZlIBtgp_RbOBEY-BLNAMuO6UCE43EBytEhhskTMlSOUikvrAxW6EnehGM76vjHLtI8afqWqLS/w640-h480/IMG_0115.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqtN8BUdJmW9X9BST1cDqnT24Ey0044E3ecwHAYHlbQDWcd9EN_ZN-wstme_Y490mWsSDajKWGgdp26gCy5XjWWjw_YpHcFJ_6IFq_rA6kYZRYAlPXCkGCg2OYqzZmUnfhtVMKoBDnXIe9_luCvEloJ3OFI3Qyo2uPRIYpX-h5jve-kSvgjKQ-Mcg3AsR/s800/IMG_0117.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqtN8BUdJmW9X9BST1cDqnT24Ey0044E3ecwHAYHlbQDWcd9EN_ZN-wstme_Y490mWsSDajKWGgdp26gCy5XjWWjw_YpHcFJ_6IFq_rA6kYZRYAlPXCkGCg2OYqzZmUnfhtVMKoBDnXIe9_luCvEloJ3OFI3Qyo2uPRIYpX-h5jve-kSvgjKQ-Mcg3AsR/w640-h480/IMG_0117.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-73792341604228342302023-10-19T23:05:00.003-04:002023-10-20T16:58:11.087-04:00The Creepy Contentization of Halloween<div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeodbAvsR9l4tH5Y2ko-2hsMFCoa0eLPvVszIB3COZAMJSFHMk__83RKQ4V05gviZaE6tqu32EfMMAe1OolVkhMyBxLD0XEQuQqxglqnuV4qvWB8gR52teXRVKa01WVY_jOO63ddnrYsK3p3N5ttAlwq7fbOdJLwPlAryDHvCInptXaUV5BPpmNZtKFIpy/w640-h480/2023-10-04%2019.18.06.jpg" width="640" /></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>October 19, 2023 — </i></b>One night, a few weeks ago, I rolled my garbage bin down to the curb. The street was quiet and dark, the air chilly. A few dry leaves scratched across the asphalt like skittering creatures. I turned and saw my house glowing in its Halloween halo against the darkness, making my dark little house an even darker spot against the darkness of the forest behind it. It was a good moment. I posted a photo of it on the socials afterward. <br /><br />A couple days later, my girls and I made popcorn balls (somehow burning two bags of popcorn in the process), and then sat down to watch a Disney mummy movie called <i>Unwrapped 2</i>. Popcorn balls felt like the perfect accompaniment for a mummy movie, I’m not sure why. It was a good moment. I posted a photo on the socials afterward.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbjOcSjLZ_jGX-cUPKG5ugx4bepdcYPVCkJ9dLB0SsKCMS1cpvsY4AGxh0A5nmpyG744qk0DDurIN9XcMcEFFWLTwMZ2Ga7-FCZypZRhzK4wUD3NqCD23ANSvKPUjF0WqB6bv5wjy8WFP_cDgjFRUAPaKqL4MnC5k9JugQpwlHwEo5b-wv5p6_TgOXVQum/s800/2023-10-04%2017.20.39.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="595" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbjOcSjLZ_jGX-cUPKG5ugx4bepdcYPVCkJ9dLB0SsKCMS1cpvsY4AGxh0A5nmpyG744qk0DDurIN9XcMcEFFWLTwMZ2Ga7-FCZypZRhzK4wUD3NqCD23ANSvKPUjF0WqB6bv5wjy8WFP_cDgjFRUAPaKqL4MnC5k9JugQpwlHwEo5b-wv5p6_TgOXVQum/w476-h640/2023-10-04%2017.20.39.jpg" width="476" /></a> </div><br />A couple days after that, I hit the road to New York with some friends and ended up visiting a pair of filming locations for the horror movie <i>A Quiet Place</i>—a street and a waterfall. It was a good moment. I posted a photo of it on the socials afterward. <br /><br />Ten years ago, I would have written 800 to 1,000 words on each of those moments for the OTIS Halloween Season blog, examining them, elaborating on them, pondering them, crystalizing them, connecting them to other moments, finding new ways to discuss and describe them and to make them interesting enough to truly share them—not just the image, but the moment and the meaning and the feeling. <br /><br />These days, like so many other people, I often just take a few seconds and throw a photo on the socials (although I did write a little about my <i>A Quiet Place</i> trip in the OTIS Club Newsletter on Patreon—<a href="https://www.patreon.com/jwocker" target="_blank">plug!</a>).</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PC8IEJIexERQJtYBXfl8AV9CWsWntIOYMNhw2y5uy1i6x_Zr2ctMKYE63_38t8idYEM2NGwyTjOZTS4WOX_3W36gZ7f7zgJQJjJVS8StyvwrwBPmedA2T7_IFRQfb2AvRFhu0YEmVqSXusUFaKuW5nDiQ9R8GQYf03Q4W6PqudjoALRS-Dz_muB1auCr/s800/unnamed%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PC8IEJIexERQJtYBXfl8AV9CWsWntIOYMNhw2y5uy1i6x_Zr2ctMKYE63_38t8idYEM2NGwyTjOZTS4WOX_3W36gZ7f7zgJQJjJVS8StyvwrwBPmedA2T7_IFRQfb2AvRFhu0YEmVqSXusUFaKuW5nDiQ9R8GQYf03Q4W6PqudjoALRS-Dz_muB1auCr/w480-h640/unnamed%20(2).jpg" width="480" /></a> </div><br />Among social media’s many, many war crimes is that it killed the personal blog. The socials allow us to scratch that itch to share and connect, to draw meaning from moments of our lives, to record them. But it leaves out the examination, the sitting with them, the exploring them and transforming and translating them. The socials made us turn away from those moments where effort was put into making them as valuable as possible to other people and turn toward mere naked content, the purpose of which is to distract the bored. <br /><br />That’s right. Content. <br /><br />Once upon a time writers and artists and musicians and directors balked at the term content. “We’re not making content,” they would say. “We’re making art. Thoughtful entertainment. Connecting with our fellow humans through artforms. We want them to spend time and thought with what we’ve made” And they were right. Content is a corporate term. A business term. Like product. Or commodity. Not an art term. Not a human term. <br /><br />But then people did start making actual content instead of art. Reaction videos and lip syncing videos and little skits and rambling diatribes at the camera, 280 character drops, photo dumps, recycled jokes and memes and mimicked trends. Things that only demanded an eye-flicker of attention. We just needed to fill these social channels, didn’t matter with what. So we shoveled what we could in there. And, of course, it’s easier to do that. It takes seconds for me to post a photo of my house all Halloween’d up. It takes hours and hours to create something interesting around that scene and that moment and that photo, to put context and emotion behind it. To make it worth more than a millisecond pause in somebody’s mad scrolling. To make it worth thinking about. To take the risk that there is more to it. <br /><br />I miss personal blogs. But I see why we stopped writing them. Why spend hours composing articles about our experiences at a haunt or in a seasonal aisle if the socials are awash in thousands of images of them. <br /><br />Of course, this isn’t a Halloween issue. It’s a life issue. Although maybe not much more of one since we seem to be nearing the end of the social media phase of culture, this thing that we spent so much of our lives doing now doomed to be a nostalgic and expired artifact up there with soda jerks and gelatin dinners and smoking indoors and disco music. “In my day,” I’ll tell my grandchildren, “We used to post photos and tiny snippets of thought online all the time to blend and disappear in a cacophony of other people’s photos and thoughtlets.” And those grandchildren will find it as weird and irrelevant as briefcases and breakfast cereal, cable channels and gas-powered cars.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqjQkb5XfPK_kw7EYoZQIoEfvfctQY60C-S88aC5HKjO-1LGDKcRBcMtAlOy0vjN1QB-IbKtb2dcHW5u0W7HMGS3chuvpAjoQGLp3mlSjdMvAcHHSbr2a6soPuyXu12X6XIIynyqXxFFYfJgdTjim3lar3Zk0uTGhQWEkE2moABykRi19WPxGA6xakxSy/s800/91064.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="676" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqjQkb5XfPK_kw7EYoZQIoEfvfctQY60C-S88aC5HKjO-1LGDKcRBcMtAlOy0vjN1QB-IbKtb2dcHW5u0W7HMGS3chuvpAjoQGLp3mlSjdMvAcHHSbr2a6soPuyXu12X6XIIynyqXxFFYfJgdTjim3lar3Zk0uTGhQWEkE2moABykRi19WPxGA6xakxSy/w540-h640/91064.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching <i>A Quiet Place</i> on the street where the first scene was filmed.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"> </div>And maybe you’d say, playing the devil’s advocate during this here devil’s season, that the moments I listed at the beginning of this post maybe weren’t worth writing about. Personally experiencing? Sure. Photographing for my family? Sure. Throwing them out on the socials as a quick update? Sure. But spending hours writing about them and them sharing with strangers? Nah. And you might be right. You really might. <br /><br />But hopefully the moments we do something with, invest in, and explore will outlast the moments we just threw out there before moving on to the next. It’s like there’s this pile of rocks at the edge of a lake. We can toss them all in the lake and make a nice series of splashes that last a few seconds. Or we can take those rocks and build a bridge or a quay or something at that lake that will last a long time and be useful for other people. <br /><br />I bet you had no clue the word quay was going to appear in this post. Me either. But we both knew this thing was going to end in a clunky metaphor.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now to go post this article on the socials.<br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-33214588512243723302023-10-17T22:15:00.003-04:002023-10-18T13:53:40.019-04:00 Hallowasted and Halloworn-out<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu7KTp-WuQYh-giEckL7UcsxAZ9pMJ5OEPKJOK_1Yumxw8V1MzvLjJUX5T1oi8WTYfdSv0DBRkCkKZVAmh4c96gHRTPpKJd3UuL3NwcRWJkYgTH-g5eBft5adUQfP_6T6yMYvU4xs52PXe-ju0m2fm9fcYWZFMMazuS9pqQHciPUETCDNzQ2Ao1ZXIbD25/s800/2023-10-17%2022.00.59.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu7KTp-WuQYh-giEckL7UcsxAZ9pMJ5OEPKJOK_1Yumxw8V1MzvLjJUX5T1oi8WTYfdSv0DBRkCkKZVAmh4c96gHRTPpKJd3UuL3NwcRWJkYgTH-g5eBft5adUQfP_6T6yMYvU4xs52PXe-ju0m2fm9fcYWZFMMazuS9pqQHciPUETCDNzQ2Ao1ZXIbD25/w640-h480/2023-10-17%2022.00.59.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>October 17, 2023 — </i></b>I’m exhausted. Like all the time and for a lot of reasons, but at least this past weekend exhausted me for mostly good reasons. The girls were around, and we squeezed in a lot of Halloween into those two and a half days together. <br /><br />You could say, and you won’t because you have standards that I don’t, that it was Hallowall-to-Hallowall Halloween. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-QjBfpylXw60T1MG0hr_cPhBLzUjHkheTlTThIdoq6BfBpWBtAQ0oEu2MU6QskHWwal973naw6mwIVzqkBaFRsc2IvTwswPcovovjFaa7UfWSc9VrJIDkwjI6wndOI_uoySlpLLUI5yA9mP_I9wCcNqZUftoKJH-HLRqW2g3_9tHwLw2MWfc_vFCKwM7/w640-h480/2023-10-13%2015.20.57.jpg" width="640" /></div><br />The Halloweekend started with a massive seasonal scare package from a sympathetic friend. That box of goodies stocked us up on candy and other sundries to last us through a few days of spooky shenanigans. It also included a pair of earrings made to look like tiny versions of two of my books (<i>Poe-Land</i> and <i>A Season with the Witch</i>), complete with back covers and individual pages. Really cool. And really thoughtful. I feel like I need to ping the marketing teams at my publishers about them.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUmG7tHnONyAXwDOrpYxHA5qNhNPSH_z0fJfbKBs42SJvlCTtCe0Wafaompszm1TYxSh3yEfyZ2YRDr10BETw_9xuOAa4uq7WzpkxZo89AMu6XUv1p_XNW5X_hvZAawA3Bo9jEa5TqC6svxs-3Ofl_eP979KJeA6JdHiTXcx5ccTjG-YEPft4QfSRH16eX/w640-h492/2023-10-13%2015.30.12.jpg" width="640" /> </div><br />We devoured all that candy—chocolate lollipops shaped like bats and gargoyles and skulls, candy corn and Mellowcreme pumpkins, chocolate covered Oreos and pretzels, Halloween Peeps and Hershey’s white chocolate fangs—as we devoured all the episodes of two shows: The new <i>Goosebumps</i> on Disney+ and a new animated spookshow called <i>Fright Krewe</i> on Netflix.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHrByETiSG8tui6H3KmLT6I-PkEU1utdij9EhUne9J6fmwU7fqcIvFeIcVpqy1M1NkP6KJg4A9GeZXnzpVhIWBvvZIgvAA04HG9tAFWtpi0lzUI-iRKNwAKaatRlrL7FYOU8Rc-kD0Q-tnS6ZOI5jGk0ywDdukHaqQ3F1KyZqhtzyKvPXvhAkGFBmuw8s5/s800/2023-10-14%2009.55.49-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="800" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHrByETiSG8tui6H3KmLT6I-PkEU1utdij9EhUne9J6fmwU7fqcIvFeIcVpqy1M1NkP6KJg4A9GeZXnzpVhIWBvvZIgvAA04HG9tAFWtpi0lzUI-iRKNwAKaatRlrL7FYOU8Rc-kD0Q-tnS6ZOI5jGk0ywDdukHaqQ3F1KyZqhtzyKvPXvhAkGFBmuw8s5/w640-h490/2023-10-14%2009.55.49-1.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>We went to Jurassic Quest, which is not Halloween-y in the least, but sometimes you just want to be surrounded by dinosaurs in a hotel event space. Especially if they’re mildly animatronic. And your kids get to ride them. <br /><br />We went to Haunted Overload, which I wrote about already <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2023/10/haunted-overload-more-than-haunt.html" target="_blank">on this blog</a> and would have made it a successful weekend all by itself. <br /><br />We hit up Dunkin’ to get a spider donut. But only because there are no Krispy Kremes up here in New England. Not only do the Double-Ks have better tasting donuts than the Double-Ds, this year they did a whole series of Scooby Doo-themed donuts.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCjHUdB1kYx_vW3ltLHPG5s-nb0FYlL6NdpYmlAeB-txsrAdmM2oSpW0oESwkjVXjM44SShqvdy5nLM7lwHIjPNLItIP0txqVkjR-Kpu1Avhcqhq5oMq7lRykJ52LMDgncacrvlIPH9hnloqElzWDko5SVuqkhuYdyYHyTzZKDohS3gjgZbmSx947icrib/s800/2023-10-14%2016.58.28.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCjHUdB1kYx_vW3ltLHPG5s-nb0FYlL6NdpYmlAeB-txsrAdmM2oSpW0oESwkjVXjM44SShqvdy5nLM7lwHIjPNLItIP0txqVkjR-Kpu1Avhcqhq5oMq7lRykJ52LMDgncacrvlIPH9hnloqElzWDko5SVuqkhuYdyYHyTzZKDohS3gjgZbmSx947icrib/w640-h480/2023-10-14%2016.58.28.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div><br />We made a fire in the pit out back and luxuriated in the autumn atmosphere. When one of them asked me to tell them a scary story, I went inside and grabbed all three volumes of <i>Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark</i>. I skipped all the ones that ended with just me having to yell and jump-scare them and focused on the creepier ones. Then I passed the books to my middle child, and she read a few. <br /><br />We made Hallowaffles shaped like skulls, cobwebs, and pumpkins—the tiny waffle irons were part of the scare package—although we didn’t leave them in long enough so they were somewhere between spooky pancakes and spooky waffles.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSWbA_LYB5RmISRwu1OkfdDzqdi-S73Y4mb5yGUcrdE_Mt2Cqw3rudPLzBi1SgB4WzjOnsULB_2uJ8qpK4z7BHi5lN7QzlQjiYurkvc-2471VN78X7xCu5xqN3E3ave6lUXOUytthFrEJhRMQo_KHJMpxGWZnpC6fakXkXJQ-G6Rn442pYLhVu4Kb4dcE/s800/2023-10-14%2018.20.26.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="800" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSWbA_LYB5RmISRwu1OkfdDzqdi-S73Y4mb5yGUcrdE_Mt2Cqw3rudPLzBi1SgB4WzjOnsULB_2uJ8qpK4z7BHi5lN7QzlQjiYurkvc-2471VN78X7xCu5xqN3E3ave6lUXOUytthFrEJhRMQo_KHJMpxGWZnpC6fakXkXJQ-G6Rn442pYLhVu4Kb4dcE/w640-h484/2023-10-14%2018.20.26.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div><br />At the request of my youngest, we jumped in the car each night and drove around looking for Halloween decorations. One house on my block has gone all out, with mini-scenes spread across their yard that includes a pet cemetery and Killer Klowns from Outer Space, a pirate ship full of skeleton pirates, other monster mashes. In a Halloworld where decorating has become merely displaying a collection of figures from Home Depot and Lowes (Hal-Lowes-ween?) on your front lawn, it was nice to see all the effort they put it, even if I’m jealous that they live at the much-more-visible base of the cul-de-sac and me and my decorations are hidden away at the end of it. By the way, the Dead End sign that inspired the title of <i>The Smashed Man of Dread End </i>is staked into their yard. My middle child is always trying to get me to spraypaint a backwards R on it.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0lZhCKRNVXAaEr8kLpccAYKuuDgWx1SGMD8WjGf4XlmoT5yF7xpx1ZPblxKpW8m1Vnz6UhJb1jnCmd_skNECet6YV-pPIp-x181f4BhJOB35vxmD8-XNUSBs9Jm9LJEERrRYEm3xKHAeyOJCQ_a5uNpR5PaS4KfxtnTaOxJk8i6VfvZG44lSRg8O2bBy4/s800/2023-10-17%2022.01.27.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0lZhCKRNVXAaEr8kLpccAYKuuDgWx1SGMD8WjGf4XlmoT5yF7xpx1ZPblxKpW8m1Vnz6UhJb1jnCmd_skNECet6YV-pPIp-x181f4BhJOB35vxmD8-XNUSBs9Jm9LJEERrRYEm3xKHAeyOJCQ_a5uNpR5PaS4KfxtnTaOxJk8i6VfvZG44lSRg8O2bBy4/w640-h480/2023-10-17%2022.01.27.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>Eventually, our Hallowallowing was all over. Sunday night I tucked the two youngest into bed, visions of sugar pumpkins dancing in their heads, and watched a few episodes of Hannibal with my oldest (we’re kind of having a Hannibal-ween here in the Ocker house). <br /><br />And then I Hallowent-to-bed. <br /><br />All weekends should be like that one.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhars2lcqXDy6hCBUHdB69EJxVX64gqdmmlhDxqej2MfAfFXT3T6QHBf37jFo2-u221_xQe0ndbZdEsdgRyKHMgYmnzPBRV9J9F9qYrILkr_LT5c__oUc-G5Vf88TdyvZQV5AsSGjZ5_N-DEEJszuGrqtmQBgL3xyxyUEUhpdOzyudD-d-m2wFfQ7Zj8HpV/s800/2023-10-15%2011.20.15-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhars2lcqXDy6hCBUHdB69EJxVX64gqdmmlhDxqej2MfAfFXT3T6QHBf37jFo2-u221_xQe0ndbZdEsdgRyKHMgYmnzPBRV9J9F9qYrILkr_LT5c__oUc-G5Vf88TdyvZQV5AsSGjZ5_N-DEEJszuGrqtmQBgL3xyxyUEUhpdOzyudD-d-m2wFfQ7Zj8HpV/w640-h480/2023-10-15%2011.20.15-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-10623521772951182222023-10-16T11:51:00.001-04:002023-10-16T17:36:03.941-04:00 Haunted Overload: More Than a Haunt<div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6eiv2UWS92RFY3r7T2nFzLqOJu2cfbZx8R97U3-AzeHZcdXNcTgdYktOEmNUReURW_9FcJbDXiA2GnA3IwjrhlDOyfI91YpQzSAhKaBuOdLDiMa0RIyU2E80fy_vOqyYfE_TH13a0VjXZvIGPzOslL7zV1NfeJu4Hfb0pBVuDM26RgqisVTLvJ07wWNn/w640-h480/2023-10-019.jpg" width="640" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b><i>October 16, 2023 — </i></b><a href="https://hauntedoverload.com/" target="_blank">Haunted Overload</a> is one of the best haunts in the entire Halloween-celebrating world. And I say that without having been to the haunt in over a decade. Sort of. <br /><br />I haven’t been to it <i>at night</i> in over a decade. But I’ve been to it during the day many times. When there are no scare actors. And no creepy lighting. And no ominous music and screams thickening the air. And it’s still one of the best out there. And even that phrase, “one of the best,” is inadequate. It’s unique. The haunt is arguably even better as an art project than a Halloween roller coaster.<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6X8XSXq4pu2JcCqpZkV1vx4dMsVR8hcVgOZQW65q44HI9tBt6Fg6CRD0i-uDZBftia8MZZ6vBpIN3amL4hTavOq8sKTckdKf3z3jHmL1mHtlzJiyKdAtT7I4q72ynNvBw0TONHDpCgXTNQaCR8k1hwmC_ZSHcjzjhJ1z4wvoq2zZcnHyUtUT7CveMhDK/s800/2023-10-15%2010.52.51-002.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6X8XSXq4pu2JcCqpZkV1vx4dMsVR8hcVgOZQW65q44HI9tBt6Fg6CRD0i-uDZBftia8MZZ6vBpIN3amL4hTavOq8sKTckdKf3z3jHmL1mHtlzJiyKdAtT7I4q72ynNvBw0TONHDpCgXTNQaCR8k1hwmC_ZSHcjzjhJ1z4wvoq2zZcnHyUtUT7CveMhDK/w640-h480/2023-10-15%2010.52.51-002.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>The first thing you should know about the Overload is that it’s an outdoor haunt. It’s located in a forest at DeMeritt Hill Farm in Lee, New Hampshire, but it’s no mere haunted corn maze full of off-the-shelf monsters. It’s a necropolis of large, custom-made buildings shaped like monsters. Some of them are dozens of feet tall. Giant skulls and pumpkins and lizards and less categorizable creatures. You walk into so many dark mouths in this haunt. It also has some of the more conventional bits of haunts—rooms full of sideshow characters and dolls and cultists. And they do those supremely well. But again. Very few haunts have a haunted trainwreck in the middle of them. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDVcAm6tyyPTzGvMJ6m3bIPSH-WxJ1SfeABf5D7LrnrP5FzUNoa_uBWBEioq06sBrgzA-r_vkAvYTATlRgjVbSqQUaXan-683ySIw2hJYpv7FFlxWkR1w2csf2T2yOT7Sq-0ncYGpDgtTFzKZSW0f1aHtuwBnWxub2OxcvT-ulFHS3fQQaki-G3DA0r5Q/s800/2023-10-15%2011.06.01-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDVcAm6tyyPTzGvMJ6m3bIPSH-WxJ1SfeABf5D7LrnrP5FzUNoa_uBWBEioq06sBrgzA-r_vkAvYTATlRgjVbSqQUaXan-683ySIw2hJYpv7FFlxWkR1w2csf2T2yOT7Sq-0ncYGpDgtTFzKZSW0f1aHtuwBnWxub2OxcvT-ulFHS3fQQaki-G3DA0r5Q/w640-h480/2023-10-15%2011.06.01-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Basically, any haunt that is just as good (and from some perspectives, even better) during the day than at night is operating in a league of haunt that few could aspire to. And, strangely, the best thing about it might be how inclusive it is. I’ve met a lot of people over the years who love Halloween but can’t experience the stress and fear response of a haunt. During the day, they can do this haunt. Children too young to go haunts can also easily do this haunt during the day. And that’s because it’s not just a haunt. It’s in a category of its own. <br /><br />I don’t know why I wrote so many words about the place. All you need is photos and a location. <br /><br />And if you want more, here’s <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2017/10/day-terrors-haunted-overload.html">an OTIS post</a> from when I visited it in 2017. Just be careful. There are more monsters in that one than just Haunted Overload ones.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFT6-zDd9W7ppFsYKsjAqdVn5-nKFAz9zZLeIj8SKYMFcGs7DsQB4YxqjVKoor1-uByTfxO8_Em2hQTzNW_cm2c-BfdscP63-mTCaNzbWpsQuhDUZB3aeFCkf0COJ9eFd4e9YbuuC-PrU9s0BculjO4P0YG19wBORTWJ4PQzhzPSYdX0-SkIEgcPtc_N6/s800/2023-10-15%2010.57.52.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFT6-zDd9W7ppFsYKsjAqdVn5-nKFAz9zZLeIj8SKYMFcGs7DsQB4YxqjVKoor1-uByTfxO8_Em2hQTzNW_cm2c-BfdscP63-mTCaNzbWpsQuhDUZB3aeFCkf0COJ9eFd4e9YbuuC-PrU9s0BculjO4P0YG19wBORTWJ4PQzhzPSYdX0-SkIEgcPtc_N6/w480-h640/2023-10-15%2010.57.52.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-t14hscTt4-3dt5ZtoKsRB6i9lePPpHE4eJ4cHW2JBUhGGFuWBlRhl7cKctjZvmcTlA48FJEbassWKy2y0IcAh6j3gpxTaL3uwtwT_XWny8cWk_yz7NwF1Bqi6whUp9OS9HRNyw56n3ynRo3CKl2ECnaDmtsa7VQEaMIMBbYlCaMu8oakw5Bp1sGZec5/s800/2023-10-15%2011.01.19.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-t14hscTt4-3dt5ZtoKsRB6i9lePPpHE4eJ4cHW2JBUhGGFuWBlRhl7cKctjZvmcTlA48FJEbassWKy2y0IcAh6j3gpxTaL3uwtwT_XWny8cWk_yz7NwF1Bqi6whUp9OS9HRNyw56n3ynRo3CKl2ECnaDmtsa7VQEaMIMBbYlCaMu8oakw5Bp1sGZec5/w480-h640/2023-10-15%2011.01.19.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYcEEGrpEvlzR2e-piuAPhoRx6pxo5-NquOjy5vzzxEXy38DGOTaR2hkotGnnhNyRuy0JKriwME60SbwhQ8i6ojdrCzasZwbElZ-lCQqBU0lf8nUYQ9_hotkcUg8-TPZubEh6JOmR0cqhPmLXPgCQeZ0lBxPNBg0Ru59F0G8D55Ci_w_B54OtZ7tYTUlZD/s800/2023-10-15%2011.03.09.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYcEEGrpEvlzR2e-piuAPhoRx6pxo5-NquOjy5vzzxEXy38DGOTaR2hkotGnnhNyRuy0JKriwME60SbwhQ8i6ojdrCzasZwbElZ-lCQqBU0lf8nUYQ9_hotkcUg8-TPZubEh6JOmR0cqhPmLXPgCQeZ0lBxPNBg0Ru59F0G8D55Ci_w_B54OtZ7tYTUlZD/w640-h480/2023-10-15%2011.03.09.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rN9eJTYv-mW4y6AIp95puE3s4BCGBvA3ZijGrW344qy-GrDaOGvFHkyQ5V1ix0Q2kvp2Ut-keXB2-Dah_NR811dfSItkCpkrjUAsJYivisebqMxM2JT3h-ELhB4WWbbarWC-tBWKRJ5ssG3wk8tFz4n_rD8C57-hN2gQqH1zXvVjd3SMdeYOXNqJbs11/s800/2023-10-016.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rN9eJTYv-mW4y6AIp95puE3s4BCGBvA3ZijGrW344qy-GrDaOGvFHkyQ5V1ix0Q2kvp2Ut-keXB2-Dah_NR811dfSItkCpkrjUAsJYivisebqMxM2JT3h-ELhB4WWbbarWC-tBWKRJ5ssG3wk8tFz4n_rD8C57-hN2gQqH1zXvVjd3SMdeYOXNqJbs11/w640-h480/2023-10-016.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvDH4wyJujeRBVRZ7ZditWLUo8OcMxnNSma9WpxhQwkcFbGcLpHDVkZyrehF2zemLkQjrM7vd5g3rky0OJqDPn8afuT4YJsK6AVd1ss0_1S0I_UmrgJIX_YLgpdPn_Qh0n7GQRxFs1iqxOTKKCqmfdrGDAqvfs73XxPDvnswec3qjzevHg7s4uhvNtTAP/s800/2023-10-017.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgvDH4wyJujeRBVRZ7ZditWLUo8OcMxnNSma9WpxhQwkcFbGcLpHDVkZyrehF2zemLkQjrM7vd5g3rky0OJqDPn8afuT4YJsK6AVd1ss0_1S0I_UmrgJIX_YLgpdPn_Qh0n7GQRxFs1iqxOTKKCqmfdrGDAqvfs73XxPDvnswec3qjzevHg7s4uhvNtTAP/w640-h480/2023-10-017.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9H2MSlJI-i9tTWdkPkoZ84QDp3Ash4BvyQo5k8o3_Qjan9oeJSHU39tfuGkL9MJY4YSstD5SsDvNjYEZpmqkMN24cWukx3ma3RC7zgCF_0psjkz_ivp6ufBdHWPHfGIFEW0hbl7p6QZj6tGcAzuUviY7i9WdkvkjCl-Glmu71x3U7Qv2n8Xok8B6LN9I/s800/2023-10-018.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9H2MSlJI-i9tTWdkPkoZ84QDp3Ash4BvyQo5k8o3_Qjan9oeJSHU39tfuGkL9MJY4YSstD5SsDvNjYEZpmqkMN24cWukx3ma3RC7zgCF_0psjkz_ivp6ufBdHWPHfGIFEW0hbl7p6QZj6tGcAzuUviY7i9WdkvkjCl-Glmu71x3U7Qv2n8Xok8B6LN9I/w640-h480/2023-10-018.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9006916691325621871.post-76396460373948475012023-10-13T09:41:00.001-04:002023-10-17T23:15:08.610-04:00Chasing After Jason<div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-2itUA-_I2hHzTuGLkWwyJVEz0tFZtGDKtN6qj7-0rMpCJzTBI8RE1pnzzccIr4Kto1RDLLvk1RWRMmcj_z3a_CRR51QU7sdQoeeKldY463uguZKJq2BwUfLnkQ5xkeeono5puKTY41VWmxBXYrQdtVNQiW6PntSKxvM850-rzKo4HXTRvIweP7pRQgJt/w640-h480/2023-08-22%2012.24.52-1.jpg" width="640" /></div><b><i><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div>October 13, 2023 — </i></b>My eldest had been asking me to do it for a long time. “Can we watch all the Friday the 13th movies?” She had gotten into slashers ever since she saw Scream (and that was the first series that we watched from beginning to end together, with her watching them all for the first time and me rewatching them all for the nth time until we arrived at a mutual first viewing of <i>Scream VI</i> this year). But I have no idea why she was focused on that movie series specifically. Maybe it was because her father shared a name with the killer. Maybe Jason Voorhees, with his hockey mask and camp setting, is the most iconic of the slashers. Doesn’t matter. And while it was a messy time for us for much of this year, we were finally able to marathon all twelve in August. At least, that’s what we called it in my day. People call it binging now. Binging sounds way less healthy than marathoning. So I guess that’s maybe more accurate. <br /><br />Now this was a movie-watching event. No mere popcorn and lights out on the couch would do. First, we had to prepare the room. And we did that by building our own Jason. I had a mask of his lying around, so we took a tailor’s dummy that I bought to display a coat owned by Ray Bradbury, topped it by a plastic pumpkin wrapped in a black shirt, stuck the mask on it, dressed it in one of my coats, and then gave him a bloody machete from one of my daughter’s previous Halloween costumes. <br /><br />We just needed the blue fairy to make it a real boy. <br /><br />We then lit the room with red LEDs. In hindsight, Jason is probably more a blue or green light guy (for water or forest, respectively), but you can’t go wrong with red for a slasher. And, after we put a couple of Jason action figures on the shelf beneath the TV, it was time for us campers to go back to 1980 and visit Camp Crystal Lake. <br /><br />We watched the first four movies in one sitting. I don’t remember the last time I watched four movies in a row like that. Heck, I don’t remember the last time that I didn’t fall asleep at the beginning of Act 3 in a single movie. But it was a lot of fun. And it reminded me of the early days when I first got into horror movies. I’ve written <a href="https://www.oddthingsiveseen.com/2015/10/scream-ing-into-horror-genre-how-i.html" target="_blank">about that before</a>, but, in summary, I was late to that Halloween party and then marathoned/binged everything during the summer breaks of my college days until I earned multiple PhDs in horror. <br /><br />At one point I told my daughter the same thing, that I used to watch all my horror movies this way. All I needed was Cherry 7UP, UTZ rippled barbeque potato chips, and gummy peach rings for it to mirror the conditions. <br /><br />“Let’s go get some!” she immediately said. So we did. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKou6hsNL4PZKMK0ihF1Kq70ZVGviwJdytsfFIgjOwM72J1Qg-ORBBlPfVR5jQvRQq8NKg3Z3vRG8t-DPnHJ0Vfbp-Sm6_2FONqXLRP6OVQ95tQK83S9Szlda_Hd4PCb_csqnBQmRgF0ggdWbCeyrfbvTMJmrdZvl8wN54jr6h_iZL0fnk5ZxMshgBQ5XF/w640-h608/2023-09-07%2017.26.39.jpg" width="640" /></div><br />For the next leg of our marathon a day or two later, we picked those snacks up. In the red light, the Cherry 7UP looked clear instead of pink and the peach rings white instead of yellow, as did the yellow and orange UTZ bag. And it was a real moment for me. I mean, here I was in 2023, my family in shambles and my oldest daughter at my side, shotgunning Friday the 13th movies while eating the same snacks I did when I was 20 and single and in the attic of my parent’s house in the middle of a cornfield shotgunning Friday the 13th movies. It was like two markers in a timeline, a rare and mystical moment of sync, like the pages of my life were transparent and overlayed, and it allowed for a little bit of bitter reflection. But also some wonder. <br /><br />I enjoyed watching her go through all the revelations of the series for the first time. “It was his mother? I totally forgot <i>Scream </i>spoiled that for me.” “Oh, here’s when he finally gets his hockey mask.” “Wait, I thought this took place in Manhattan.” “He’s going to space?” “Was that Freddy Krueger’s glove? And, of course, she didn’t have to wait a decade for that latter scene to get paid off in 2003’s Freddy versus Jason. <br /><br />We ended up finishing the series upstairs at another TV—which I’d forgotten until I looked at the collage of title screens that my daughter had made. Unsure why we did that. I think sometimes you just need to come up for air from a basement, as cozy as it is and even with a hockey goalie-masked serial killer staring at you as you watch his greatest kills (“Dude, that goalie was pissed about something.”).<br /><br />We both agreed on liking <i>VI</i> the best (which was where I stood before this marathon), with <i>Part 2</i> being the runner up for me, I think. My daughter went crazy while we were watching the remake because it starred one of her favorite actors, Jared Padalecki, of <i>Supernatural</i> fame. <br /><br />I think my personal revelations on this rewatch were that the 2009 remake wasn’t as bland as I remembered it, and, honestly, its Jason might be my favorite of all the designs and actors. Also, I really love that <i>Jason Takes Manhattan </i>turned Jason into a sea monster. He was drenched that entire movie as he ravaged that fog-shrouded boat. They should have strung seaweed all over him. <br /><br />But the biggest revelation of all was how much fun it was to watch all twelve movies. It didn’t turn into a slog even once and I didn’t catnap a single time (that I remember). It was just a blast. But that might have had nothing to do with the movies.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <br /><br /> </div>J.W. Ockerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14978777187682498561noreply@blogger.com