A Halloween Skin Flick

Halloween cometh and I am excited.

As a kid we used to go to my grandparents house because she lived in the good neighborhood were we were bound to get at least on candy bar. As compared to where we lived, out in the middle of no where in bum fuck Arkansas. Our neighbors probably would have given us some chicken feed and perhaps would have let us use their outhouse.

I wish I was kidding, but sadly, I'm not.

Anyway, Halloween was a good time as a kid. I used to go as a scary Hobo, year in and year out. At the time I liked the costume because I thought I was unusual and at least original. Plus, my mom got to put on a fake beard. I thought I was making the choice to be a hobo.

As a parent, I now realize how manipulated I was. My parents encouraged me to be a hobo every year because of the money. I just threw on some of my grandfather's old clothes and put some black on my face. Didn't get much cheaper than that. As a parent myself, I can appreciate that.

Last year my boy went as Captain Kirk. I chose it for him because I knew there would come a time when he wouldn't want to listen to me any year and I thought that this would be cool. This year he is going again because I have convinced him it is a "cool spaceman". He's still gullible enough to believe me. But as a compromise, because I'm not quite as cheap as my parents, I got him a cool sword at the dollar store. Captain Kirk is so cool that he goes with any weapon of his choice, suck it. I don't want to hear the naysayers, you have no place on this blog.

Slowly as we grew up Halloween got less cool and fun though. I'm not sure what happened, but once you grow out of Halloween, it becomes just another day. I have tried to fight this for years and until I had kids, it was a losing battle.

However, year in and year out, at least I try to get into the spookiness of the season. Every year I read a scary book and watch as many scary movies as possible. I know that it is a lame attempt to capture what was in my youth, to once again live to be scared like Stephen King's IT did to me. It's getting harder and harder but at least I'm trying. Netflix is making it easier.

My book this year was called "Elsewhere", a predicable story about people who are scared of ghosts but not realizing they are ghosts. I give it a 4 out of 10 on spooky meter. Since the book crapped out though, I have been making the rounds through Netflix and again, I am becoming disappointed.

There are certain things that every horror moving must have. The first is bad acting. Luckily, this is in great supply on the trash I have been making my way through. I would highly recommend "Grave Dancers" should you be interested in this. Secondly, there has to be some sort of a twist. You know, I am your father kind of thing. I've found a couple but nothing that really has blown me away.

Finally, there needs to be some nudity. How you can make a horror film without showing some T and A is beyond me. This is the only reason as a kid I ever watched any of the Friday the 13th movies. So far, this is the one real element of horror movies that has eluded me this year and I don't get it.

Seriously, you're not classy movies people. When you show someones brains getting spattered across a truckstop bathroom, you've left the argument for "art" way behind. Come on people, these are teenagers! They demand coitus!

For example: "Teeth". This delightful little flick is about, wait for it, a girl who has teeth in her vagina. Just by the description of this film, there has to be some nudity in it, right? It's about a monster vagina, there has to be pay dirt.

Nope. Nada. You never see the monster. This isn't Jaws people, it's about a toothed vagina! Nothing.

The next movie: The Death of a Ghost Hunter was equally disappointing. There was a short bathtub scene but it was more glimpses than anything else.

Searching for skin in bad horror movies has become my white whale.

"Wicked Little Things"--a wicked little nothing.

"The Deaths of Ian Stone"--the death of my faith in horror movies.

"Survival of the Dead"--describes the audience after watching this non T and A flick.

I am beginning to think that they don't make movies like they used to, thus pushing me father and father into cranky old man mode where I talk about how they used to make "Talkies".

I hit a little pay dirt, and redemption, in a movie called "Lake Dead" which was truly one of the worst movies that I had ever seen. However, with that said, there was a very good doink session between two randy characters in the woods. Then they end up dying. This scene alone brings me back to my Nightmare on Elmstreet childhood and redeems the whole genre.

However, I am beginning to believe that I will never get to relive my Hobo wearing, outhouse visiting Halloween childhood. But I am hopeful.

Next up on the list is:

A Brush With Death: A group of cheerleaders spend the night in an abandoned farmhouse.


The Initiation of Sarah: Humiliated and rejected by the stuck up Alpha Nu Sigmas that accepted her more popular sister...............blah blah blah.

Perhaps I can find my Moby afterall.


The Loaf

I ran a stop sign on the way to get a loaf of bread. I do not feel bad about it. If there was a cop there watching, I still would have done it while giving my best Bo Duke rebel yell. I then would have found the nearest dirt road to ditch him on and complete my maneuvers by jumping over hay bales in my SUV. Don't worry, I stayed at a holiday in last night, it's cool.

I have to get to the store quick to get more than one loaf of bread. It's personal now. I have to get there before all the weekenders show up and take all the bread. The weekenders, they are my nemisis. They are the people working all week and then descend on the grocery store like locusts every weekend. It starts on Friday around 4 and doesn't let up until Sunday night. After they are done, it's like the zombie invasion has come and all the supplies are gone besides one can of cream corn. But if cream corn was on sale, I would go get it. I would brave the hoard because this is what my life has somehow become. Chasing food sales with a vengeance. I am the Van Helsing of grocery shopping.

And I have to get at least 3 loaves of bread. It's the good bread, not that high quality cardboard that I usually buy for the kids and me. The stuff I buy is usually $1.38. That's right, I know exactly how much a loaf of bread costs. The good stuff runs me almost 2 bucks. However, this weekend, and this weekend only, there is a sale on the good bread for 99 cents a loaf. This is the bread that you must handle gently or it will tear. It's the down pillow of breads, light and fluffy while still providing warmth in the tummy. The stuff I usually buy can be used as home base by the local kids playing baseball. It's tough and rough, which kind of explains my children. I feed them ruffage, gives them a good constitution for the future. I'm trying to introduce them to grits as well, the very sustance of my own childhood. So far, they hate it. But you won't hate it when you spend your whole day stacking bricks and mixing cement. Wait, that was me as a kid. My kids spend thier whole day hitting me on the head and jumping on my crotch.

As I jump the curb and leave the road behind me, I ponder how I came to this point. When saving 39 cents on a loaf of bread was a matter of great importance. Does it really matter enough to run down the poor cows in the field that I am now driving in? Somehow, to me, it does. I buy roughly 8 loaves of bread a month. That makes a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches, another staple of ours. That means that if I can buy 8 loaves at 99 cents, stack the extra's in the freezer, then I save a total of $3.12 a month. I am running over orphans for 3 bucks. I'm not proud man and yet, I do not change my tactics.

When you are working on a single income, the grocery bill is one of those areas that you can move around a bit. Shop a special here, get something a day old here, and pretty soon you can buy a good loaf of bread every once in awhile.

I jump back on the road while screaming my apologies to the cows and make it to the store. The parking lot is full. When I normally go to the store there is no one there. There are only a very select few of people that shop on Mondays at 9 am. I am no longer accustomed to waiting in lines. I like my purchases to be freash and not picked over. The only screaming kids I want around are my own. And I want my cheap bread.

And if it's is smushed by the weekenders? If it is torn apart and picked over, trampled by greedy weekender hands? What do I do if it is?

So help me god on all that is holy, someone's car is getting keyed.


The Shuttlecock

I took the minions to the art museum. You may be disagreeing with this, knowing our children as we do. But I parent like other people do extreme sports. I base jump parent. It's the only way to live. Some other parents may go to the potter barn or a nice china shop as an afternoon outing. But really, if something isn't labeled as priceless how can you live on the edge as we like to do? A broken fancy flowered tea pot can be replaced. A broken Rembrandt lands you in jail. Sometimes even I question why I do the things that I do with the kids. I'm sure it would be easier to just sit home counting the piles of laundry that remain undone but it wouldn't be as exciting.

We have a good art museum here. It's got a lot of fancy stuff by a lot of fancy painters. And the modern art area is in it's own complete section which makes it easier to skip entriely. I don't even have to walk through it. Judge me, I don't care. But I just can't seem to understand how a bunch of toilets nailed to a wall is art. I don't know what emotion that is supposed to spark. I freely admit that my understanding of art consists of "that one has boobs and that one does not."
I would also like to tell you that I want a better understanding of art. That would be the mature thing to do. But I have no desire to do any such thing. The redneck in me is alive and well.

The real reason that we wanted to go to the art museum on this particular fine day though was because of the giant shuttlecocks in the front field of the museum. Seriously, gaint shuttlecocks. Those things that you play badminton with. We have two of them right in front in a giant field. They are about 2 stories each. I don't get why they are there but I do like the fact that they are there. I know, it's modern art that I don't get. And I know that they contain no boobs at all. But still, this one I find very cool because there is a hint of silliness in it and I like silliness. None of us should take ourselves so seriously.

For a while I wanted to picnic under the shuttlecocks and today was that day. So after running the ring of fire that is the European section of the art museum, we headed outside.

Today was also field trip day at the art museum. I try to avoid field trip days. My kids seem to think that they get to go with the groups and sometimes I may or may have not lost them. Hossmom reads this blog so I need to be careful what I say.

All the field trip kids were also outside. And they were near my shuttlecocks. They were all over them. They were climbing on them. They were hiding around them. I'm even sure there were some awarkward first kiss moments under there as well. My point is they were treating this thing like Jodi Foster in the Accused.

So we couldn't picnic under the artwork. I also don't like field trip days because they fuck up my plans and it's frowned upon when you smack around kids that aren't yours. But we made due, we ate underneath some trees. Not a giant shuttlecock, but charming in it's own way.

Eventually the field trip kids went back to their Pink Floyd schools to be another brick in the wall and Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss ran to the shuttlecocks.

Little Hoss leaned against the giant shuttlecock and apparently that was enough to send Paul Blart the mall cop out at us. He came running down the stairs yelling "Don't touch the art!", almost tripping over a destroyed Monet that was not my kids fault. The minions froze, as did I.

Out of breath, panting, he explained that no one is allowed to touch the giant shuttlecocks. Not the three thousand field trip kids, no. Apparently they can make it their own personal urinal. But we are not allowed to touch it.

I thought about arguing but the guy had a point. Don't wreck the artwork. I get it. My children try very hard to not destroy anything that doesn't belong to me. My stuff they have not problem with destroying. And eventually we may destroy every priceless piece of artwork out there but at least we will be polite about it.

Although what gets me is that the docent didn't have a problem with the 3000 kids before us and somehow we got singled out. Perhaps Little Hoss' reputation proceeds her. That I could understand. But most likely it was because large groups scare him and he was looking for stragglers of the pack. Someone nice and easy that he could correct, perhaps the little sick ones that he could separate from the herd. That way he could go back to his bosses and tell of how he inserted himself in a child riot and was able to keep the artwork safe. His bosses would be pleased, give him a raise, and he could drive home in his Volvo.

We left the shuttlecock alone and watched the docent leave. We picked up our mess and stood back looking at the giant shuttlecocks.

We still don't get it. But at least we aren't touching it.



I have just returned for the annual Stay At Home Dad Convention. Fun times and I find myself better for it. Curious in what a bunch of dads learn at a convention? If so, check out my special post at Daddyshome and you'll get the idea.