The Grand Ol’ Opry Ain’t So Grand Anymore

I. Introduction: The Lost Highway

The Opry was a boisterous place the night Hank Williams made his debut, June 11, 1949; the crowd was hopping to the tunes of that Lovesick Blues Boy, as he was called. They demanded from him an unheard of six encores. This legendary performance was ended by Red Foley coming to the microphone to quiet the crowd, lest they cheer all night long (Henderson, Tassin, 1975, p. 41). And thus a true legend was born.

The reign of Hank Williams’ on the country’s most famous stage lasted three years, until August 11, 1952. His dismissal from the stage was bitter and marked by a promise to keep: sober up and you can return. Hank Williams died before he could be reinstated to his legendary position as king of Opryland. The Opry has yet to reinstate him to this day.

The call for Hank Williams’ remittal to the stage of the Grand Ole Opry has been loud and lasting. It is headlined by none other than Hank Williams’ grandson Shelton Hank Williams III, friends, family, fans, current Opry stars including Charlie Daniels, country stars such as David Allen Coe, and Grand Ole Opry personnel (Shelton Hank Williams III, Keith Nelter. Reinstate Hank Williams. Reinstate Hank Organization, Hank III, Nelter Creative, 2008. Web. 1 Nov.2010.). The reasons for this alleged “sin” are policies and discrepancies on the part of the Opry itself. These policies are fallacious and raise many questions about the way the Opry is operating, has been operated, and how they treat past and current members. Why can band members not be readmitted to the Opry posthumously? Why are dead members not considered members by technicality? Why is the Opry allowed to maltreat their elder members? These are all issues that the Opry needs to be held accountable for. In Tassin and Henderson’s Fifty Years at the Grand Ole Opry, they talk about the glory the historically popular institution of American music was; this glory is now something of a bad joke, with their policies as the punch line. The Opry must reinstate Hank Williams and thus be held accountable for past and current wrongs, as well, The Opry needs to completely revise their policies and make them work for the performer, not for the ultimate profit of the Opry’s business.

II. Hank Williams: The Tragic King of Country Music

Hiram Hank Williams was born in a log cabin in southern Alabama to a father, Lon, and a mother Lilly Williams in 1923. Lon left in 1930, leaving Lilly Williams alone to care for the family and leaving a seven year old Hank and his siblings fatherless for most of their lives. Like many country singers, Hank Williams began to show his talent in the gospel church-music.

But where he showed talent in singing, his music career truly began when he stayed with his cousin J.C. McNeil. When he stayed with the McNeil family he learned from his aunt how to pick the guitar, and learned from his cousin how to drink whiskey. He’d had his first taste of liquor at the age of eleven. Not totally uncommon in prohibition era Southern U.S., kids would learn to find the stashes of bootleg whiskey at the hoedowns and would drink when the coast was clear (Caress, 1979, p. 14). This was also his first taste of the string band style country music. These hoedowns marked his introduction into the music that would be his trademark. With a mixture of novelty songs, “negro blues”, ballads, laments, and many other styles of songs, and Hank would use their three common traits of melody, simplicity, and rhythm to create his very well known brand of country music.

Hank Williams and his drifting cowboy band.

It is a question who gave it to him, but it is certain that by the age of twelve he had a guitar in his hands and was eagerly learning to play it. The first lessons came from his aunt Mrs. McNeil, and beyond that two black street performers, Cade Durham and Rufe Payne (AKA Tee-tot). He sought out Rufe Payne when his mother moved the family to Greenville, Alabama. Rufe Payne taught the young Hank the important lesson of timing and rhythm, which was a mark of his later career. Hank Williams said of Tee-tot: “all the musical training I ever had was from him” (Hank Williams via Caress, 1979, p. 23).  When his family migrated to Montgomery was the beginning of his true career in country music. His mother helped him trade in his $3.50 guitar for a sunburst finished Gibson. An amateur night at the Empire Theater was his break. He sang a song he’d written called “WPA Blues”, and he was a hit. He won the first prize of fifteen dollars and rode his success

to an audition of WFSA Radio Studios, one of the two big country stations in Montgomery at the time. He was awarded a spot as “The Singing Kid”, it wasn’t long after he earned a show of his own, twice a week for fifteen minutes. It was here that the first incarnation of his famous Drifting Cowboys was created, as seen in Figure 1. Through the ensuing years Hank Williams garnered a very large following, a heavy alcohol addiction, and was quickly becoming a hit. He arrived in Nashville with his wife Audrey in 1946. This arrival marks one of the greatest musical partnerships in American history: that of Hank Williams and Acuff-Rose upon his audition he was signed Acuff-Rose immediately. Both these men became mentors in the same realm as Tee-tot.

In June 1949, in its twenty-fourth year on the air, the Grand Ole Opry welcomed Hank Williams on stage. He began his yodeling tune “Lovesick Blues”, to an unprecedented six encores. His career on the Opry’s stage was marked with consistent absences, drunken appearances and similar antics. For this

he was relieved of his position amongst the Opry’s ranks, with the promise: sober up and you can return. He never did.

III. The Grand Ole Opry: Lovesick Blues

Hank Williams’ stint on the Grand Ole Opry’s stage was short lived. During his years at the Opry he made an impact on the Nashville sound as well as the barn dance and honky-tonk image. In a way, not only his work with the Opry, but the Opry’s sheer existence has affected the music culture surrounding Nashville: Music City. “The Opry, with its self-conscious history and traditions, relies on a homespun definition of country music” (Jensen, 1998, p. 68), this quote represents quite effectively the ideological standpoint of the Opry, especially in a post-Williams world.

For several years, Hank Williams was an Opry regular, but he garnered a reputation for being an unreliable performer. Though his performances proved him an ample asset to the Opry’s business, his performances garnering attention more akin to Frank Sinatra or The Beatles than to traditional figures like Ernest Tubb (Jensen, 1998, p. 74), garnering attention from both traditional country audiences and a growing pop-oriented audience; the first seeds of the current Nashville pop-trend in country music.

The Opry is the country’s leading institution in country music, and Hank Williams is much to be blamed for that. Williams is one of the most iconic figures in country music history, and his performance with the Opry is to this day stuff of legend. The Opry gave him the promise that if he would sober up he could return. His untimely death prevented his triumphant return to the stage he loved so much (Boucher, Smithsonian, 2003, p. 96). The Opry to this day utilizes Hank Williams name and image in everything from quotes and images on their website to radio advertisements (Shelton Hank Williams III, Keith Nelter. Reinstate Hank Williams. Reinstate Hank Organization, Hank III, Nelter Creative, 2008. Web. 1 Nov.2010.).

IV. Reinstate Hank

The fact that the Grand Ole Opry has yet to this day to allow Hank Williams’ remittal is one of great controversy in the worlds of Nashville and country music as a whole. The Reinstate Hank organization is run by none other than Hank Williams’ grandson, a country star in his own right. This organization is supported by family, friends, fans, current and former Opry stars (including Charlie Daniels), and even Opry personnel (Shelton Hank Williams III, Keith Nelter. Reinstate Hank Williams. Reinstate Hank Organization, Hank III, Nelter Creative, 2008. Web. 1 Nov.2010.). A petition is in circulation to gain Hank’s reinstatement. Rallies, protests, and events are created around this issue, as seen in Figure 2. The simple fact that the Opry is completely ignoring the issue is troubling at best. And it begs the question: ”If Hank Williams were alive today and wished an association with the Opry, we would certainly want to talk with him about re-joining the cast. One of the Opry’s many roles is to honor and

A sign at a rally for Hank Williams' reinstatement

respect history, not attempt to re-write it,” (Fisher, Gray, 2010, para. 8). Pete Fisher who is the vice president and general manager of the Opry even went so far as to say that he was indeed proud of Hank Williams’ three year association with the Opry.

As is evidenced by our own country’s laws, when something is wrongful it is repealed. This brings to attention why the same can’t be true, why can former Opry stars be readmitted after they have passed? Hank Williams, after all, has received many prestigious awards posthumously, the most striking of which are a Grammy in 1989, admittance into halls of fame and museums, and a Pulitzer Prize in 2010. If all of these things can be awarded to him post-death, policies should not be the things in the way of his reinstatement into one of country music’s greatest institutions.

The issue at hand is not only of Hank Williams’ maltreatment at the hands of the Opry after his death in 1952. The Opry’s policies also allow them the freedom to maltreat their elder members, they are allowed to let elder members perform as much or as little as they deem “necessary”. This is clearly wrong when one considers the fact that it was the elder members who have kept the Opry alive for all these years since its early inception. Elder members who have continued to perform and continued to evolve country music; what would passed members say if they saw what their institution of music has become? Mother Maybelle Carter described the Opry as such: “The Grand Ole Opry sprang from such a neighborly sharing, and has become the symbol of country music to the world. She became that because she has always given, to those of us who were part of her as well as to the remainder of interested America, a down-to-earth and straightforward picture of a way of life” (Mother Maybelle Carter via Tassin, Henderson, 1975, p. 11). This vision of the Opry is something that should still exist, but it does not. The Opry’s policies and treatment of its members, and its exploitation of Hank Williams’ name and image mark a paradigm shift within the Opry itself. Where it once represented the down-home country music styling, it now represents a commoditization of not only country music as a whole, but the commoditization of the people that are involved in it.

This commoditization can be seen even in the essence of Music City (now called “Titan Town”). Where once all of Music Row was made up of Honky Tonks and other institutions of music, now it is made up of corporations and big businesses (Joe Buck, Trashville, Documentary). As Creech Holler says in the documentary on Nashville’s current state, Trashville: this does not represent the country, this does not represent country people.

Hank Williams influence on country music is wide-spread and undeniable. He’s been the king of country music since he first stormed the music-scene. The one and only real argument that the Opry poses is that, historically, it is in their policies that there can be no posthumous reinstatements. In the shadow of the vast amount of argument for Williams’ reinstatement, this seems meager. To combat this, we as fans of Country Music and of Hank Williams should boycott the Grand Ole Opry, their policies, and their exploitation of their members. Alternatively, there is the option of protesting, rallying, and creating resources for the public to understand why this issue is important and what effect it has on country music and America’s musical culture and heritage as a whole.

V. Conclusion: A House Without Love

For his contributions to a distinctly American music genre, Hank Williams deserves to be reinstated to the Grand Ole Opry, to the stage he loved so much. The Grand Ole Opry needs to answer several fundamental questions about their treatment of current and past member, and this is the first step to their being made accountable. The fact that one of America’s greatest music institutions exploits the image of one of their past greatest stars is sickening, and with the grassroots support of fans, musicians, current Opry stars, and even some of the personnel of the Opry, hopefully this sin can be atoned for.

Survival of an Art Major

Hey, how have you been, it’s been a while.

I’ve started school coming on 8 weeks ago and I realized that my 2 readers or so might miss me. Maybe. So here it is: a step by step analysis of the survival of an art student.

Step 1: The sleep schedule of an art major

Wake up at 6:00… 6:30… 7:45… 11:00. Yeah. Eleven o’clock works pretty well. Class is rad and shit. Because you’re an art major and you like to fuck shit up. It’s true, ask anybody. Sure, it may seem regrettable to some that I “waste” the day, but we art majors are actually night people, and by that I mean procrastinators and we don’t do our work until 1:30 in the morning. Also we stay up to ridiculous hours smoking hookah, hanging out, walking around in 30 degree weather, and having heated discussions on what time we’re waking up for breakfast. (Please note: we never actually eat breakfast; however we do get shitty Starbucks coffee simply because it’s the only coffee joint you can exchange meal plans for coffee + pastry; the lemon loaf is fucking delicious.)

Step 2: FOOD!

You might think I’m crazy when I say this but for the last 8 weeks or so I’ve been living on of the Orange Chicken + Rice combo from a place called Mein Bowl. It might sound kinda crazy, but that shit keeps me alive. That and copious amounts of good ol’ Mountain Dew.

Also, Denny’s at 2 in the morning keeps me going.

To survive as an art student one must remember these things:

Some days eat a lot because you have a lot of extra meals. Some days don’t even eat nothing. Some days wake up at around 10:30 and be jonesing for a cup of joe. That’s basically your diet.

Also on the days you dont eat nothing, add in the tobacco of your choice. Cigarettes are a no-go for me, so hookah is my main stay.

Step 3: The Sketchbook

Every art student has to have one of these. The sketchbook. Where you keep all your devious plots and doodles of you as a cowboy.

The sketchbook is your nexus. Where all your thoughts, doings, and whatnot goes. Mine is filled with sketches, poetry, notes, and a jumble of other inconsequential shit.

Step 4: Hookah

The single most common form of social bonding around campus. Smoking out of a hookah is a great way to meet new people, hang out with friends, calm your nerves and otherwise spend your free time. Find a good spot on a bench, or out in the grass, grab your favorite flavor of shisha and light up some coals.

Step 5: Homework.

Homework, homework, homework. The bread and butter of the art major. Little or a lot: the trick is to fuck off until you absolutely have to do it. There’s a lot out there for the art major. But do it well. You will be sorry if you do anything half-ass.

And it isn’t all bad, some of the homework is really quite enjoyable. Especially the homework for your elective classes (that is if you enjoy them).

Other times it can be absolutely painful. For example, group papers, I myself ended up doing almost all the work for one such paper, because one girl decided she didnt want to put her portion of the essay online until 1 in the morning. So I had to hand type out what she wrote from her hard-copy essay she handed me. Shit sucked.

But I digress. Homework can be tough, it can be easy. But it is always a pain in the ass.

Step 6: Friends

Inarguably the most important part of surviving as an art student. No we are not lonely hipster types, we do not sit around all day

quietly doodling in our sketchbooks (we just do that for most of the day, you insensitive prick). We thrive on company. And no, we don’t necessarily thrive on the company of other lonely hipster types art majors. Get a group of friends, go out to dinner, walk around, joke, smoke, toke (if you’re into that shit), and most importantly: high five and shit.

Good friends will keep you up. Keep away from the bad ones. Friends are the ones that will help you through the hard times, and keep you going when you want to stop. And as an Art Major you will inevitably hit an emotional col-de-sac and just need to quit for a while. A good friend will kick you in the ribs and make sure you get the fuck back up and walking.

They will make sure you dont fuck around too much and do your homework, and make sure you’re eating regularly. Which is something you will need desperately every now and then after not eating for a couple days.

Step 7: The Cup of Mud

Coffee: the elixir of life.  The ever-present drink in the hand of every student of Art (in fact in every student of everything, but I once again digress). You must sup from the cup that will keep you up, if you can tolerate the reference to the Three Peckered Billy Goat brew from Raven’s Brew.

Sadly the only coffee shop that is open regularly is the always disgusting Starbucks. But otherwise we have several options in the downtown metropolitan region, and Einstein’s Bagels on campus. Whether it is Starbucks or not: sometimes you just need a cup of mud.

Well that’s just about it. I hope you all found this very enlightening, this look into the life of an Art Major.

Letters to the Music Industry: Kid Rock

Dear, Kid Rock,

You fucking suck, man. I mean seriously. The whole rap-rock fad dissolved and you’re still plaguing people’s ears with your bullshit? And worse yet, these days you’re plaguing people with some kind of  Southern Rock… Country music… atrocity. You came out with a country song a few years back, which for some inexplicable reason was a BIG radio hit. The song sucks, buddy. Something about cheating on your girlfriend and getting drunk, and she’s cheating on you at the same time, and neither of you can look at each other’s pictures or some shit because you both feel guilty.

Literally the only thing worse than that song that was extremely popular at the same time was the Counting Crows cover of Big Yellow Taxi. But this point is neither here nor there.

Truthfully, Robert, you wouldn’t disgust me quite so much if you just stuck to second-rate rapping, instead you have to try your hand at being a Southerner and writing some kind of “deep” country music. NEWS FLASH: you’re from fucking Michigan, dude. There is no way in hell you could ever pass off as a fucking Southerner. Not that there’s anything particularly wrong with a Yankee fuck such as yourself writing country music (kindly note the irony in that statement), but how in the hell can you even pretend to be a Southern Rock musician, did I point out that you’re from MICHIGAN!? Please excuse me, but I think that means south of the Mason-Dixon line, not south of fucking Detroit.

I guess what truly pisses me off, Kid, is that you have a severe lack of talent. So much so you can even attempt to pass off the (I wont say, theft, and I won’t say plagiarism) the overuse of a certain well-known and very renown Lynyrd Skynyrd song to create your abomination All Summer Long. Seriously, how is that song popular? I feel like I’m taking fucking crazy pills over here. He took the opening chord progression of Sweet Home Alabama and played it over and over again with some retarded commentary about smoking “funny things” and fucking bitches out by the lake or something. Correct me if that last sentence was fallacious: “bitches” is the proper term used to describe females for a city kid from fucking Michigan, right?

I guess Hank III said it best when he described you, Robert:

“Kid Rock don’t come from where I come from. It’s true, he’s a Yank, he ain’t no son of Hank. And if you ever thought so, well goddamn you’re fucking dumb”.

If you go back to being a second-rate rapper and just stop trying to squeeze your way into the Pop-Country scene, you and I can coexist peacefully. Well. Maybe not peacefully but I certainly wont burn your house down as I currently have planned.

Love,

Morgan

Michigan in the Summer sure looks mysteriously like a run-down southern farm house.

I Can’t Seem To Pry My Mind From The Gutter…

Haven’t written in a while. I agonizingly cannot put pen to paper and come up with anything of worth. I cannot touch my keyboard and clack anything of real value. Not that I could anyway, mind you, but I’ve been contemplating this writer’s block. According to Henry Rollins, my penis is getting in the way. But I have a feeling something else is at work here.

Could it be the stress of moving? The stress of a new girl in my life? Is it that my hair is getting too long, or that the Beatnik mentality is slowly dissolving from me? I personally believe Wrackspurts to be the cause of my brain-fuzziness. No matter the cause, though, I have found myself completely and utterly unable to write. Politics. Well, they aren’t really my thing, I know something about them and they piss me off, but I could never write a full, cohesive, article about them, my friend DangerB is much more adept at that. I’m not a raging-Otaku like Ms. Dory-kins… And I don’t have the sense of humor or pop-culture irony of my friend over at My Microwave Life. So what exactly do I have to offer? Whether it is for my readers (the 2 or so I have), or whether it is merely for my own enjoyment.

Maybe it is my penis. Is my super id getting in the way of me writing anything of worth? I read Charles Bukowski, I read some of his poetry, and I bought some Dylan Thomas, some T.S. Eliot, but none of it helped. I still have a wall.

I listen to Tom Waits and Henry Rollins, Jack Kerouac and Dax Riggs, but still nothing comes. I am a muse-less writer. But to call myself such is an insult to writers! For what am I? I hate to be so un-humble as to call myself a writer, let alone a good writer in the first place.

But what makes a good writer? Are all these rhetorical questions pissing you off yet? “Good writing” is totally and completely subjective. Some people see what others call “good writing” as misnomer *cough*Twilight*cough*. I personally find good writing to be something, not too wordy, but eloquent in speech, something that’s ultimately unique, even if the subject matter if overplayed. Stephen King, for example, does not fit this example (save only for his Dark Tower series).

In the end William S. Burroughs is right: you need to write about what you know, because if you try anything different. It is apparent.

In the mean-time, I’ll keep trying.

MOAR DIY?

That’s right! A post I’ve been putting off for a while. IT’S HERE NOW. AND IT MEANS BUSINESS.

So. I make Halloween costumes. It’s kind of my thing. And I’m very, very, good at it. All original with the exception of one. I’m going to post pictures and brief backgrounds on each.

1

The first my take on the character Frank from the film Donnie Darko. Yes. It’s a bunny rabbit. Yes. Those are horse teeth. I built it on a base of a hockey mask, this is the one and only non-original design, and the first and only that I ever used a pre-existing mask for.

2

My first original mask design was this. Based mainly on my dreams, comic books, horror films, and my backyard (we used to have something of a junk yard with stuff piled on pallets as far as the eye could see).  Created using plaster, my head, epoxy, leather, paint, and mirrored sunglass lenses. The finished product was less impressive than some of my other masks, the eye lids are held up by barbed wire, but I used a finished of wire up and down my arms, bones hanging from my belt, and a sleeveless pinstripe jacket.

3

Probably my second favorite of the bunch. Sadly, I haven’t got any pictures of the finished product by itself. The idea was first inspired by Hannibal Lector, and the human-muzzle that he is forced to wear in The Silence of the Lambs. I was always fascinated with the idea of a human muzzle, mine bears teeth instead of bars. I was also very fascinated with corpse paint, particularly that used by the band Gorgoroth. This particular mask/costume is all custom. I got a mohawk for it, did my own corpse paint, and the entire cassock/corset combo is custom made (courtesy of my grandmother and her friend).

It bears fleshy mouth held open via fish hooks of varying sizes, and the teeth that it wickedly boasts are those found in Oklahoma, right out of the mouth of a coyote. My only regret is the nasal piercing being a nail, while everything else I feel was wonderfully executed, I feel like I got lazy there. From spikes along the jaw line hang gold chains and above them are home-made rosary beads, burned, and battered by myself.

The boots (not pictured) were military issue all-leather combat boots, with home-made leather straps that went around them which bore wicked 1 inch hexagonal spikes. Purchased from Studs and Spikes [dot] Com.\

4

The first non-horror inspired mask/costume. Inspired by punk fashion and cyberpunk fiction. During the making of this mask I listened to a lot of electronic, darkstep, etc. and watched cyberpunk on a regular basis. Including Serial Experiments Lain, Blade Runner, and a number of dystopia novels and films.

This mask was made out of fiberglass, Sony headphones, torch goggles, dental mirrors, LED lights, vacuum tubing and miscellaneous other things.

I call it the Neuromancer, after the novel, of course. I modded a pair of black pants, with bondage rings, heavy chains, and brass zippers up the legs. And the finishing touch was a pole-saw as a prop.

Note: the respirator’s filters were hollowed and I put LED lights in them, so they glow when turned on.

(Yes, that is a wall plug you see, yes it was attached to the top of my head via a carriage bolt. Yes, were it to be plugged in, I would be fried.)

5

The last, final, big banging stage-off show stopper. My personal favorite and my final piece. Possibly ever. Or at least for a long time. Also, yes. That is beer and sweet potato pie you see.

Created once more primarily from my dreams, the base design, that is. Further development was influenced by comic books, Clive Barker’s Books of Blood, Warhammer, and the Tortured Souls toy line. Oh yeah, and my infinite love of Steampunk. That was a big one.

The mask was made of leather, very, very OLD leather. It was brittle. We started with soaking it in water to make it malleable, we then proceeded to shape it, we then finalized it by encouraging it to keep its shape using Mod Podge, which is where the glossy finish comes from. The glasses were purchased from eBay for 20 dollars, they are Willson Safety Glasses, the lenses are custom black, HIGHLY mirrored. For 125 dollars. The magnifier loupes come from Harbor Freight, and don’t actually work to magnify anything. The septum ring is simply a brass ring I cut and put into the nose, the boar tusks are approximately 6 inches long, and surprisingly sharp.

I re-used the cassock and corset from the third costume, I built my own leather apron/tool belt. And I filled it with antique dental tools.

Finally I used a pelvic bone from a cow, I made should straps, and put copper rods into it, behind me sits a stretched face, held up by large hooks and thumb screws.

The reason this is my last costume: these costumes have always been projects between my dad and I. I design them, and he helps me build them. Without him I’m not sure I have the skill nor the drive to do it. I’m sure I could. But I simply don’t want to, he’s my partner in crime.

The Midnight Meat Train

Been gone a while. Mainly because I have nothing worthwhile to say and while I have nothing worthwhile to say as a generality, there’s been literally nothing. Until today. And The Midnight Meat Train.

I know it came out in 2008, but I’ve not been able to put my hands on it until now. This is easily my favorite of Clive Barker’s Books of Blood followed closely by Pig Blood Blues and Son of Celluloid. So, naturally, I was a little hesitant, considering some of the truly horrid adaptations to come out of Hollywood’s ass these past few years.

The Midnight Meat Train opens big. A nice shot of the soon-to-be-revealed-to-be Vinnie Jones dispatching unfortunate victims on a Subway. Quite the attention grabber.

We are then introduced to our protagonist, our hero, Leon (Bradley Cooper). A photographer. He’s spending time with his hot girlfriend (played by Leslie Bibb), and she delivers one of the greatest possible things that the director could have put into this film:

You know how everyone is always complaining about how dangerous and dirty the city is and how they wish they could go back to the good ol’ days when it wasn’t? Well, it turns out, there never really were any good ol’ days. It’s always been a hell hole.

What struck me about this one particular line: it reflects perfectly Leon’s comments in the 1984 short story.

Leon is having troubles, shooting the “heart of the city”, as he calls it. And he has a meeting with that chick from Blue Lagoon, I mean, Brooke Shields. Some kind of art critic or influential art something-or-other. He explains he wants to try to capture the actual heart of the city. She tells him he’s a failure. And that he needs to wait, take risk, don’t be afraid. Then to come and see her.

So he leaves that night. And finds 3 gang bangers about to rape some poor girl. He saves her, takes their pictures as they’re about to hurt him. He gets out ok. Brooke Shields loves his work then. This is the heart of the city. He discovers that the girl he saved went missing after she boarded the train.

He tries the police. They don’t give a fuck. So he goes to the train himself, which is where he first glimpses Mahogany (Vinnie Jones). He follows him and tries to take his picture. Vinnie Jones is not pleased. Leon obsesses. Follows him, and just keeps it up. Even going so far as to destroy his vegetarian tendencies. His obsession culminates in one of the most touching scenes in film, nay, in horror movie history (totally exaggerating). Leslie Bibb removes her clothes, trying to get his attention away from Mahogany, he’s photographing her as she’s undressing. But every time the shutter falls an image of mahogany, or the gang bangers, or of death, flashes before his eyes. He breaks down, begins crying, begging her. Rejected, she turns away from him, not bothering to cover herself, tears streaming down her face. The scene made me want to cry.

Something is fundamentally changing with Leon. His diet, his dreams, his thoughts. We see him gradually transforming into The Butcher.

He finally follows The Butcher, to his job, and onto the train itself. Where he sees the grisly murders. He tries to tell his girlfriend, she thinks he’s nuts. She tries to tell the police, they’re clearly covering up for The Butcher.

The film culminates in his girlfriend being tricked onto the train, and he and the butcher duking it out in a climactic finale.

This was a hard review to write, I want to divulge so much. But I think I did well. I would give this film a 5/5, it balanced everything wonderfully, it stayed true to the story, while adding a little bit, the filming style was wonderful, utilizing bold sweeping camera movements, blur in contrast, and wonderful lighting.

My one and only complaint is that in the end, the train conductor comes out to induct Leon to become the new Butcher. As there are creatures beneath the city, which consume the flesh of humans. What I didn’t like was that the creatures were displayed as savages beasts, basically. While the train man monologues about how the creatures have always been there, since before the city, since before modern time, blah, blah, blah, it begs the question:

Why the hell do these creatures need protection and why the fuck do they deserve to be fed human remains by us? In the story, the creature explains that they are the forefathers of the city, that they are intelligent creatures, and that without them, the city would fall into ruin. You were given a reason why. That was the only complaint I had.

The Criminal Inside of Me, Now On Tumblr!

For the photos that I want to upload, but can’t make full on blog posts for!

The Criminal Inside of Me

Letters to the Music Industry: Miranda Cosgrove

Dear, Miranda Cosgrove,

Now I understand that this may seem rather unorthodox, because you’re part of the TV and film industry first and foremost. But upon the release of your album Sparks Fly! and a handful of singles you became a part of the writhing beast known as The Music Industry.

Now, the album and subsequent songs are described as being more mature than the soundtrack work she’s done for iCarly. Themes include “love songs and just fun songs about hanging out with your girlfriends”. Oh, yeah, Miranda. That’s some real mature material you’ve got there. Real strong, independent, and… unique?

Honey, you’re 15-years-old. Stop singing about finding the one. Stop singing about how hard life is when you’re 15. Most of all stop singing about being in love ALL THE TIME. Seriously, this is getting really old. I’ve listened to a few songs and I’m tired. Physically tired. Because of all the repetition. Same themes, same tunes, and honestly, darling, your vocal work is lackluster. This isn’t to say you have a bad voice, because you don’t, I’m just saying your work on this album in particular seems to be completely boring and watered down.

You’re a cute kid, and I enjoy your shows and work in movies. You’re a good actress. But if you want to continue in music, give me something more to look forward to. And for the love of God. Stop with the love themes and shit about hanging out with your best friends for life.

Love,

Morgan

Where The White Man Went Wrong… So Horribly Wrong.

Yes… Where the white man went wrong. So terribly, horribly, wrong.

The Literary Connoisseur Inside of Me

I was taking the Underground Tour in Seattle, which was pretty cool. Very funny, very informative, and all around a blast. We were in the gift shop at the end and I was looking around, I bought a nude-y bottle opener, and a match holder when I was looking around at the different HAUNTED SEATTLE books there were, vaguely interested in purchasing one. My wary eyes looked up and down the rows of books, caressing the covers gently with my cornea like some fragile thing. Uninterested. Unwanted. Bored.

My eyes continued their gentle comings and goings when like a majestic eagle overtaking its prey: they swept down upon something interesting, wanted, and completely and totally Steampunk. More appropriately: zombie steampunk. My eyes swept across the cover of Cherie Priest’s novel Boneshaker. Tag-lined as “A steampunk-zombie-airship adventure of rollicking pace…”, quite appropriately.

Cover of Cherie Priest's Boneshaker

I am unfamiliar with the novels of Cherie Priest, a Seattle based blogger and novelist, until this book. So I went in without many expectations. Honestly with a creeping suspicion I might be disappointed. I was wrong.

The novel Boneshaker is set in Civil War-era Seattle… Well, kind of. In the beginning it is set in the Outskirts, outside of the now walled-in city of Seattle. You follow the Widow Blue, the widow of the man responsible for the mysterious mining machine known as the Boneshaker, a drill meant to cut through the Klondike ice to get the gold. After a freak “accident” the drill goes off in the monetary district, destroying several blocks, killing 32 people (and a couple of dogs), and releasing a dingy gas known collectively as The Blight. Which kills and turns you into a “rotter”. She is something of a pariah, as the wife of the mad-scientist Leviticus Blue, and the daughter of the lawman Maynard Wilkes (who people resent because he selflessly released prisoners to escape from the Blight, losing his life in the process, people think he’s a bad dude).

Her son is hellbent on proving Maynard’s innocence, and thereby proving the innocence of his father (which his mother argues cannot be done). So he runs away and into the Blight-stricken city. Which is would appear has people living as refugees, pumping fresh air into the city from over the walls.

Of course she goes after him. Killing zombies, learning history, clearing her past, and meeting a slew of amazing characters. My only complaint is that of all the characters, they all seem to epitomize the “gentleman”, chivalrous stereotype, with there really only being two really bad characters in the book. It seems hollow to me that everyone is divided black and white, good and bad like that. And furthermore for the time period, it bothers me that she seems to ignore the Victorian attitude. But I digress, as these are minor points to an overall good thing.

So it’s a fast-paced novel including some of my absolute loves: Steampunk and zombies. I definitely recommend this book to anyone, regardless of your literary tastes.

My one and only real complaint is that it ends with her and her son considering whether they should stay and make their place with the refugees in the city or whether they should go back East. This is never answered. You don’t know if they make it out of the city, you don’t know if they live or die, and you are left with a cheesy tacked-on epilogue.

Because of the ending I’d give this book a 3.7/5

Definitely worth your time, an amazing read. Cherie Priest has found herself one more fan in me.