Monday, January 10, 2005

Just Listen To The Rhythm Of My Heart

In between re-typing captions for algorithms from Principles and Practice of Surgery for the Colon, Rectum and Anus, Second Edition, I bit the proverbial bullet (It was hard. It tasted like a nickel.) and began applying for new jobs.

It seems, though, that everything else out there is equally impossible to tolerate for eight hours a day. A somewhat promising advertisement for an editorial assistantship at a really great company turned out to be in the "craft lifestyle" department. It's a tough call; is health informatics better or worse than dog hair knitting? At best I think it's a step sideways, which is very different than a step up.

While I search MediaBistro, I'm listening to the Kathy's A Bitch Mix Brad made me for Christmas and fervently hoping no one else notices it's a homemade album with Hoku, Celine Dion, Enrique, Jewel, and even a phone prank on it. They wouldn't understand even if I tried to explain it. Any person who even presumes to judge these questionable musical selections has no right to do so until they too have driven through Oklahoma (pop. approx. 7) with Brad singing Shania Twain the whole way. How many times have you listened to "Ka-Ching?" Is it less than sixty? Then zip it.

Even if he has me listening to "Cherries in the Snow" at work, Brad's leaving today made me sad enough to cry in the car on the way to the train station. Between that, and all the anal surgery pictures, and the fact that the soda machine wouldn't give me a soda, and then only returned two of my three quarters, effectively making me pay twenty-five cents for the privilege of walking to and from the soda machine empty-handed, I'm having kind of a rough day.

Rather than dwell on my own dark clouds, I'd like to change the subject and address any screenwriters who may be reading this. Brad and I have viewed three horror films in the last week: White Noise, Dawn of the Dead, and Darkness. I have a small bone to pick with any of the writers of these films, and I will pick away publicly on the off chance that either (a) one of them reads this or (b) my fiery words, like the Pied Piper of Hamlin's hypnotic song, will incite a revolution among the movie-going public.

The unwritten contract betwixt a screenwriter and a horror movie viewer is, admittedly, a loose and inconsequential one in the context of greater wordly woes. Yet when I pay ten dollars (roughly 1.25% of my total biweekly paycheck) to be delightfully scared, I do expect to have ten dollars worth of delightful scares delivered to me in the ensuing ninety-minute window.

Regrettably, the writers of White Noise, Dawn of the Dead, and especially Darkness have cast aside this covenant.

To ensure that my trust is never again breached, I will now provide (in convenient, easy-to-read bullet format) a list of guidelines gleaned from the aforementioned films and directed at all horror screenwriters, in the (however hopeless) hope that future scary movies will be even the slightest bit scary.

-Children aren't scary (unless they are moving in creepy sped-up motion, in which case they are very scary, but only if they're wearing old-timey clothes).
-Naked old ladies aren't ever scary. They are always very, very funny.
-Cricket noises aren't scary, they are soothing.
-Stained glass isn't scary, it's pretty; some of you have repeatedly tried to make it ominous (I'm looking at you, Darkness and House on Haunted Hill).
-Old men with moustaches aren't scary, they are gross, or else they are funny, but not as funny as naked old ladies.
-Water isn't scary, it's wet. Dark ponds are very scary, and Brad will tell you that whales are very very scary, but bathtubs, sinks, and rain aren't very scary at all.
-Zombies are only scary if they aren't grunting or balding.
-DVD extras aren't scary, they are deadly boring.
-Unknown movie actors aren't scary, they are untalented, and paid far more than I am, which, granted, is a little scary, but not in the jump-out-of-my seat kind of way.
-Shaky camera earthquake-vision isn't scary, it is nauseating.
-Anna Paquin isn't scary.
-Sarah Polley was on Avonlea and therefore really really isn't scary.
-Michael Keaton may be the least scary thing in the world.
-Naming your movies after neo-hair-metal bands isn't scary, it just gets "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" stuck in my head.
-But spandex unitards are very scary, so maybe you're smarter than I think.

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Also, slowed-down cabaret versions of "Down With the Sickness" by Disturbed are NOT scary, and in fact lead to such unscary conversations between myself and my metalhead brother:

Me: Isn't this that metal song?
My brother: Yeah.
Me: ...they fucked it up.

-Clare

7:03 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Come now, Clare, cabaret is TERRIFYING.

11:15 AM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Oops, that was me, but I accidentally posted anonymously on my own damn blog. Fie!

11:15 AM  

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