Family, Friends,
Lovers,
and
Other Monsters
Batmama's Northpoint Notes #16
Summer of 1976 I watched "King Kong", Dino De Laurentis' first version shot in full color 6 times. Two views weren't due to my fresh obsessions with 10-story beasts, hot young Aryans Jessica Lange and Jeff Bridges, nor the epic fight where our Gorilla King busted my nightmare fuel - a snake colossus - in half (less terrifying for its proportions - my poor little rich pal "Big" Joe Turner and I cosigned in the '90s spiders the size of VW Beetles are scarier than those are big as buses somehow). This was over Peter Sellers' "Pink Panther" sequel playing upstairs. I'd be livid weeks later finding out the animated animal only showed up in the
credit scenes. To it's magnificence, Henri Mancini scored it so those alliterative words spark automatic pleasant mental replays, having two versions on my State-issued tablet: one the traditional jazz classic, the other a beats-driven dance clip that salts the meat of "ignunt" playlists.
Suffering cousins Kellie and baby sister Kim would "Little Engine" me up roughly 30 winding steps, my 6 going on 7 kneecaps behaving like baby rattlers, pre-pube voice vibrating. What did me in was looking to the right at the staircase apex at an oval opening maybe 10' wide surrounded by a matching white hardwood rail. Movie-goers peering down to the lobby and concession stand inhaled rising wafts of buttery aromatics while hearing the clicks and splashes of the soda fountain. Showcasing how high we'd climbed, I wasn't having another step.
Arcade Theatre stood by its neighbor and downtown cousin Columbia whose screen was wrapped in under-lit Art Deco gold and silver flora and jewelry style patterns I'd study during weak moments of most weekly matinees. My Saturday through Sunday accomplices swung from the girl-cousins to divergent besties Shayne and Shane. One a sporty kid I liked as more than a
friend sometimes, the other my actual peer who as of the early 2000's wouldn't verbally recognize that. Providing a blissfully balanced setup for an overweight effeminate nerd, in review I've passed 5 decades trying to Xerox it.
At the Columbia fiery-haired freckly "Kimbo", a year my senior, stood visibly PO'ed. Thankfully Kellie, a mature 10, wrapped her arm around me, leading us to the ground-level rerun. Sweet and soft the teensy blonde was a miniature of my ," yellow-headed" Mom in these situations.
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Dad's basket case mother Juanita AKA "Mee-Mee" warned me about going to Arcade's men's room whose doorway had this vending machine beside it where a paper cup dropped into a little window after popping a quarter in, and a soft drink of options
from 4" wide plastic pushbuttons would shoot out and spray both pop and ice. Prosthetic "arms" stabilized the product, halting spillage. Each visit this robot marvel blew my mind.
Mee-Mee said old cusses in the urinals would want to touch my "pee-pee". Laughing at her cautions through my reckless teens, I wound up housed with roughly 600 such farts in my 40's and 50's. Mom's tightest buddy Joy's mother Julia, a serial divorcee, juxtaposed Bible-banger, and sweetheart telephone company operator scrubbed her kids' precious cabooses in Listerine after outings to those movie-houses perhaps providing acorns to her gargantuan adult OCD.
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Another two Kong showings were at Paducah Drive-In, far and away my favorite way and place to see movies. Nothing's so gorgeous as a moving picture against a night sky backdrop I've read the genius writer/cartoonist/Letterman guest/NPR fixation Lynda Barry say. I'm with her 1000%. Partner-in-crime before I became a criminal Kim Hayden brought her boxy little TV/VCR combo out to her driveway capturing the appeal to boy-howdy success. One day I'll have an oversized outside screen, Lord willing. The late aforementioned Joe Turner had a projector and we'd watch scary flicks on the side of his white garage Springs through Falls, epically so on Halloween to entranced costumed kiddies.
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The Paducah also had it's South Twin across from the criminally mislabeled Paducah Mall with roughly 10 shops anchored by Woolworth's rough hewn kid Woolco. My same aged subdivision block-mate and "fatassed little liar" to hear Dad tell it,
Sean's mom Shirley worked in toys there. Bringing home every item that suffered a dented package spawned a collection fully impregnating a double-wide walk-in closet about as big as my boudoir. This kid was the first divorce product I ever met (which got me thinking "Hey, could WE get one of those?") and he'd qualify as the first I ever had "relations" with to boot when I learned what that was.
From Woolco's parking lot while my folks studied clothing and electronics I'd fake a bellyache to view bloody boobie flicks across the road.
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Now a horror-junkie after the 1976 ape-alanche I begged Dad for a Friday night South Twin junket, a creature feature I saw in my mandatory monthly "Famous Of Filmland" fanzine called "Squirm". We arrived to the kiss of death, a big red-boxed "R" on the marquee, leaving my tiny heart shattered. So bad hard-assed Gary Wayne caved, buying his porky little film freak a ticket with the edict to close my eyes in the event of mammary action. Tossing back Cokes we'd smuggled in and an enormous brown paper grocery bag full of Wesson-oil-popped corn drowned and caked in butter and salt, we settled in amped for terror. 10 minutes in roughly a fisherman passed his pal a Chinese takeout looking container leading to this recipient's face covered in blood and flesh-eating worms. GAME OVER. I belted a panic siren my considerably irritated six dollars poorer papa hadn't heard before, leaving us whipping up dust out the pea-gravel driveway post-haste. To now, I abhor pretty much all legless lifeforms.
Mee-Mee's little old lady big sister Dessie was in from nearby Arlington for the week. When Dad related to Mom and her my meltdown, unamused she was without (verbal) judgement, she turned at me with her dentured and smile-lined mouth offering "I reckon that R stands for rough!".
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"Squirm" came on the in-prison ClearTunes TV I surrendered an extorted 300.00 for all 13" of it on the Comet network again on a Friday evening. I lasted as long 45 years later. Sometimes I screw up and think about it when trying to eat. Recalling that trick could prove handy next time I'm out to diet.​
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Dad didn't tread the waters of "Must be 17 To Enter Without Parent Or Guardian" cinema with his boy again until the onset of the 1980s. Visiting my Mammy and Pa-Pa one random weeknight while Mom checked out the patrons of Gore's Big Star supermarket, her younger bro, arguably best friend for a tie, and fellow Kong nut (he sculpted
an alarmingly detailed action-scene version from clay I was promised one day - we'll see) Robert raved at rapt duo Dad and me about "An American Werewolf in London". Bent-kneed on the carpet aping a transformation scene to beat the band, G.W. Realized halfway through he couldn't rob me of this adults-aimed cultural moment.
At Lone Oak Middle School the day of Werewolf Night, a kid raved about the event excessively. Not only the "meta-gore-phosis" but a golden bough of the pre-teenage - NUDITY. Plenty from Brit starlet Jenny Agutter, but Dr. Pepper commercial icon and voice behind one-hit pop smash "Makin' It" David Naughton got buck naked too. Movies from the 1980's have notoriety for jugs a'plenty, but
"dude-ity" was dubiously absent. All I could picture for the remains of the day was that "I'm a Pepper" guy's bared ass.
It occurred to me that day in Old Man Wilson's Algebra class those folks Kellie and Kim hipped me to in the back of their mom Onetia's ride on the beltline bridge - boys with boyfriends and girls with other girls - maybe I'm one on account of I could give a rat's ass about that European lady's tits allasudden. Going through my paces, muscular man-buns held me spellbound, impatiently wishing to High Heaven 7:30 would happen.
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The movie on every level didn't fail to please. John Landis' genre classic garnered it's reputation honest - riveting and original, yet an abstraction of a Universal pioneer our eyes stayed stapled to the screen of it from minute one. My Pop, bless his heart, covered my upper face at Ms. Agutter's shower-slicked breasts but kept it open as Waffle House for the forbidden fruit of Naughton's naughty bits; those inspired a trademark line from an English kiddie to a Bobby: "A nay-kid A-mare-ican man stole my bal-LEWN". I split the Arcade re-birthed. Notably this was to be mine and Dad's final trip to the theater because he killed himself in April of 1982. My next venture was with Robert days past Dad's demise for "Porky's" where my eyes stayed fingers-free to an all the T's and A's buffet. Life's ballgame was altogether different now.
Back past Kong, horror and monsters were only rivaled by the comics. Godzilla had a '70's Marvel title for a minute where he fought with and alongside super-types like The Champions, a Whitman's Sampler of characters: Hercules, Black Widow, Angel and Iceman from the X-Men, and Ghost Rider. Today still everything in that description bubbles with excitement and coolness.
Those days all for 35 cents at any gas station, pharmacy, grocery or department store. Nowadays they're 5 bucks at a comic specialty shop. All the other places lost the best brat stabilizer ever.
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Speaking of the Tokyo lizard, last year brought my favorite Kaiju project to date - "Godzilla Minus One". Filmed in and by Japan on a Hollywood budget, it contains gorgeous cinematography and a fresh lens involving a shamed Kamikaze wrapping a more bestial take very separated from the "Monarch" US franchise I like enough as popcorn fare. The 1950's maiden film still has the beauty mark - after a rash of inexplicable natural disasters along the Pacific, the American cut of the Japanese sensation has "Perry Mason" player Raymond Burr covered in natives booking in terror from the mountain where slowly he watches something rise over the peak until its the fully-formed head of one gigantic screeching reptile to his frozen disbelief. A genuinely scary instant in the deluge of flicks my dad never failed to call "The Muppet Movie ".
Momentum began with "Jaws" kicking off the Summer blockbuster and reshaping the topography. Myself, I dug it enough but not to mania except the SNL pilgrim cast's bit where unsuspecting doorbell respondents opened up to being eaten by a lifesized "Landshark". Third grade I was all worked up over Killer Whale "Orca", a Shamu-gone-bad sea thriller with sexpot Charlotte Rampling. I confuse her with Bond bombshell Maud Adams who later made a vehicle with James Caan called "Tattoo" carrying a graphic sex scene he claimed to be legit porn. At it's climax he tattoos Adams unconscious body neck-to-peddies, a 1980's game ender plenty of today's girls would envy like Powerball winnings - she didn't even have to TIP!
Weekend late-nights West KY.s PBS affiliate showed classic Universal Monster flicks. The host whose name escapes me did great with trivia-bearing intros and the come-on of a very honest used car salesman - the quality nerd-next-door I wanted. I'd never heard an adult talk about anything worth hearing before him. Halloween he decked out like Lugosis Dracula with his straightforward anti-hambone delivery making it charmingly hysterical. Still less gallows than talk
show hostess Wendi Williams dolled up like the Statue of Liberty to the torch, eyes rolling back in her heavily cosmetic-ized noggin hitting the floor in a Graves induced collapse. I SHOULDNT laugh but the costume seemed like evidence of God deserving the Best Comedy award at the Daytime Emmys
Busted in second grade by newly minted teacher and Baptist fundy Judith Knott (before year's end this doll called me "liar" and "scum", then laid on my mom I was a "retarded sexual deviant" which put Betty in the bed for a whole day, I guess over envy for Judy's talent for succinct labeling) while reading a Kong fanzine smuggled like a nudie mag in a Bible with a textbook. Luckily she remaindered the book back into my custody likely being sick of seeing my mortified Mom and Dad.
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Underground thrillers, B-films, and Universal/Hammer classics fed my early '90's post-punk people, most of whom were devotees. Bong-passing until stoned as statuary we absorbed everything we Gen-X "slackers" (I use the slang of the time, usually I held two restaurant gigs, dropping one for a Graphic Arts trade school stint) were known for: weird nostalgia, drug abuse, and crucifying while canonizing pop-culture.
Old-school grind-house like "The Gore-Gore Girls" (NEVER again, I'm no torture/bloody guts fan at day's end without smart context), every genius B-movie encapsulating episode of "Mystery Science Theater 3000", EVERYTHING criminal-horror - "Henry, Portrait of a Serial Killer", and Ed Gein with all film-works sparked by the Plainfield Devil. I've not been availed to the Evan Peters' Dahmer joint rivaling the nekkid shots of grownup Beiber for the punitive losses category.
On an early 2000's book-bender of such, I slammed the brakes with Albert Fish. When tyke Gracie Budd saw his exposed privates before he raped, killed, and ate her she said "I'll tell my Mama!", then tried to run. I tossed the book out along with that reading jag. The lesson became my soul was intact, and "I'll keep it so".
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I couldn't make a lifestyle from horror. I adore some early Goth with its theatrics - Siouxsie and the Banshees were pioneering non-commercial audio essentials with many tracks on my tablet but not degreed to sport the look or obsess that deeply on its culture, much like "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" where I felt six was past my limit of Time Warps. Folks enduring 300+ shows with those getups seem irritatingly unartful while attempting nonconformity. Usually over 21 there's a person more lame than TV golf under the greasepaint.
To boot those "Horror Festivals" wear me plumb to pieces. I DID meet "Naked Dr. Pepper Werewolf" Davy Naughton at a Lexington Scare-Fest I haunted. Corrals of black clothed tubbies gave me vertigo rendering me (rarely) speechless
meeting an older and more shapeless than me at 56 Papaw type I still wish sometimes I'd coaxed into a bathroom quickie I could tell you about here. Instead we awkwardly locked eyes a brief eternity knowing I had something trapped behind my muteness to say - his impact on my life, for instance. But all grey matter went to sawdust, face suspended until I slunk out from the nonplussing silence inside of chaos. I swam then through a sea of black lipstick, purple hair, and back fat to those sunny skies and Starbuckses of downtown.
Screw Paranormania while I'm at it. Hogties couldn't force me to take in ghost-reality nor Haunted Houses-TV-rot. Anybody desperate to find terror in the 21st century might be the walking dead. Mayhap I should respect the hustle, but no, indulging crap is how Springer turned our ethos to
feces, now "Arts and Entertainment" is about people fighting like animals in cars, stores, and houses, "Bravo", the live theatre network is drunk rich women tussling on boats, and "The Learning Channel" has our proud home state voted by Esquire the "Most Stylish State" now better known for morbid obesity cat-fighting - I THINK "1000 Lb. Sisters" does equal 3 college credits a season. At least at Simmons where I go. Congrats, US, you're officially too damn dumb for smart TV.
Come to this house if you want the willies. Doing what I do mines nuggets from a mine of trapped souls, vampires, ghouls, and zombies. Black humor keeps us living alive and the dead at bay.
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These days we're seeing the return of strong concept original thrillers. My favorite of the past decade was "Pearl" with Mia Goth plucking every nerve possible with discomfort and hellish terror while remaining habitability true. Like everybody I cheered "Weapons" but pray it halts at one act and doesn't Jason, Michael, or Freddie itself into meaninglessness. As I type, surely someone's green-lit a fleet of 'em and a series of collectible lunch-boxes. "Antlers", "Good Boy", and the second "Strangers" (a RARE embraceable follow-up to a mortifying maiden effort) all crept beneath my skin the best way possible.
Denied access so far to Del Toros "Frankenstein" I'm champing at the bit. Shelley's masterclass monster has had my vote for next
revolution after vampires, zombies, and werewolves days are done (I loved "Walking Dead" proper but can't work up one sorry shit to give the spin-offs). I hear poor Maggie G's "Bride" isn't catching fire but it could have the post-digital afterlife of "Madame Web" gathering a wave of fans after disaster at the critic phase and box office. I own the first volume of DC's spin, the "Agent of S.H.A.D.E." with his "Creature Commandos" - mondo fun by architect and comics' guru Grant Morrison. Variations have arrived in our tablets digital comics pile including "Sherlock Frankenstein". I'll peek in if I've a free moment between here and my out-date in 2027.
Speaking of, I know the idea of a violent criminal writing on bloody horror could smack of morbidity. All knowing me up-close realize I'm self-aware, particularly after my decade-and-some-change in this microcosm. I've gleaned lots about the jigsaw pieces that made who I was and am without excuses, only explanations. Likely you'll get access if you want here and not too far off. All I ask (aware I'm in no position) are open minds and forgiveness we all need if we can ever render it to ourselves given our trespasses.
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Do I still have issues? Lord yes, tons in fact. This isn't Hollywood but it feels like it sometimes. Writing helps me sort through details with honesty, one reason in a sea of them besides my deep love for it I'm at this app plugging away daily. I hope for every eye hitting this you find something you cherish that's yours to keep, helping you fight the monsters.
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The passel of comic-books I got weeks back I've piled through and had salacious love affairs with a few. "Agatha Harkness: Saga of the Salem Witch" was a Marvel Universe hayride, reprinting classic Fantastic Four and Avengers witch-tales (Mantis, that dirty whore, tried to pork an Avenger's husband outside Wanda's vision!) followed by the modern "Midnight Sons" thing ending with the "youth-enizing" of the creepy old bag, a Marvel go-to with Cap, Major, Bucky, Spitfire, Union Jack, and anybody who can either bench over 200 or turn Kool-Aid to popsicles without an appliance over 50. Honestly, comics are fantasy and getting or being old never qualifies. Same in reverse - look at New 52 - nobody wants to be older than Bruce Wayne. The wretched knowledge I bypassed the Homer Simpson clock was tougher than my first gray. Now I'm cool with my number purely for the looks on most mugs when they learn it. My gorgeous Mom stayed young until the sickness that swept her under, and that note of her in me makes me feel my best.
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"Jessica Jones: Uncaged was a winner which I realize is Flintstone-era news to you civvies, but manna to us on the island. Brian Michael Bendis is the medium's most egregiously lesser-known since the amazing Gardner Fox, responsible for Barry Allen, Wally West, the Flash Rogues, Zatanna, Black Canary, Barbara Gordon, not to mention the freakin' MULTIVERSE. BMB is the engineer of the MCU. Stan and Jack laid a smooth foundation but Disney's rescue was erected with his deep character development and human injection after a bankrupting decade of X-Men-reliant excessive and frankly ugly product. The nonstop Lee blow-job climaxes with the Bendis money-shot. One of the other Lee, Jim's, best deeds was importing him to DC where he Midas'ed the line.
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"Batman/Catwoman", "The Joker War Saga", and "The Batman Who Laughs" each elicited like response to "Three Jokers" - Good God, that's the bomb-est Bat-book ever!" Impressed like Hell I stand over the company having a standard for the most recognized figure in fiction on this planet. Each of these read and felt like a top-tier prestige TV series. Absenteeism issues I've endured and am fixing recently in reading treasures like these are nearly life-affirming for a five decade fan-boy.
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Then we have "Captain America: Home of the Brave". Mark "Kingdom Come" Waid and Chris "Sell me ANYTHING he draws" Samnee - dream ticket for my fave cinema Avenger ("Civil War" all day long - the Geneva fight made my eyes water with that fan-service while not depriving movie-going newbies). Rarely have I been so deeply disappointed, nay, sickened by a damn comic.
"Champions Volume One" was the last Waid property I read. Nobody loves groovy teen heroes like me. However, me a 40-year out mid-American Queer found that book embarrassingly regressive "preacher-tainment" tripe. SO over know-it-all know-nothings slandering the regions I've spent the majority of my life in. I'm in a State prison loaded with rednecks of Appalachia, rural areas within hundreds of miles, low-renters of centers like Louisville and Lexington, Black Kentuckians from myriad projects, and a flyover mosaic staff. Rarely has anybody felt as loved, cherished, and accepted.
Have I encountered homophobia in a decade or so? Yep, much like people in New York where queer-bashing hasn't been exterminated and won't ever be, sure have. "Creative" types constantly within bubbles misinform readers. Here, captives in their 20's - 30's believe until I
school them I was a perpetual victim in the '90s. Truth being I was generally happy with a wealth of friends and felt blessed but for the slim margins on dating options, me being a select taste. That's cool because now I have a herd to pick from pushing 60. In this scenario I'll take it happily on the back end. So terrible, yeah.
As for the good Captain, I wrapped it up, then without criticism handed the trade to a Black cat transplanted here recently. Older with a minutiae-plumped brain like Yours Truly, I awaited his verdict. The word "propaganda" got slung in his opener. Succinct like a mofo, and I pointed out DANGEROUSLY so. This is the type of material that evokes violence. Portraying a (barely veiled) Donald J. Trump as a dystopian Nazi-boss can prove harshly repercussive. Without introducing the angle of alienating a vast demographic as my buddy declared - "Captain America belongs to EVERY American" - not a smug, self indulging crowd of loud but relatively small number (of note, the other guys take on DJT - "Not a Nazi, but totally a czar"). This is no indictment of a political franchise, but it's maddened fringe with "good versus evil" malarkey allowing bent folks of lost calibration to shoot public speakers in acts of domestic terror.
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I don't like mindset-splattered entertainment of any stripe. "Landman" to me is annoying acted out replays of "Gutfeld!" headers acted out between the sandwich breads of poetic roughneck soap. It's all "The Connors" (writing that title made my poor tablet gag) - 70% message beaten into my skull until only disinterest can possibly occur. Stop, Mark Waid before you for real get somebody hurt or killed, like somebody's husband, dad, or kid. No one's great enough at their job for that level of pomposity.
Switch of fronts - I see the light of freedom, Folks! It's dawned on me that in about 14 months I'll pass them gates out there. Refocus is here, time to reign in my goings-on with eyes on the prize full-time. Hopefully I'm purchasing property soon and staking claim so I can transition into a world I never made nor met
reshaped by Global Pandemic, rioting, daily algorithm-driven feuds, and other mechanisms molding the ethos. I'm excited to, though.
Accomplishments I'm out to conquer: a grant or scholarship for felons getting their Bachelor's locked down. If I get my way, studying Journalism for my Master's and someday giving it back to hungry inmates looking to impact their world. This crew understands politics - whaddya think crime IS and vice-versa? Rarely will you find a community so astute. Too, True Crime is Americas numero uno nonfiction genre. What better group of reporters than those that lived it? Kids mistrust the media, and why wouldn't they? Maybe it's redemption lies in a genus seeking that for themselves. The US loves a comeback.
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Three weeks back I entered the MAT (Medicine Assistance Program) for felons with opioid issues. Openly I can discuss these topics now. I get Suboxone through the pill window daily - synthetic heroin, pretty much. So long as these programs and clinics exist illicit activities like those from the Hole posts weeks back, plus vast expenses are eliminated while increasing safety. Recently I read "Are Prisons Obsolete" by '90's abolitionist Angela Davis, and the two points she made foremost in my psyche regarded the elimination of Pell Grants for the incarcerated by Ronnie Ray-gun - today re-funded by both Biden and Trump. How rare, right? Not to mention divinely transformational. Other being the failure of prohibition and the need for permissible solutions. Tell it, Sister. Ron and Nancy's "War On Drugs" spawned trillions in losses. A few staffers begrudge the tax expenditure and this Libertine/Libertarian gets it but drugs are impetus for prison's dangerous and risky behaviors costing more to police than controlling the stimulus. Too, for around three decades I busted my ass supporting droves of fat kids from unemployed junkies to eat Ho-Hos, only to experience benefits-denial in desperation during 2012, told I qualified but having money in an IRA I'd saved for, go spend up that, Mr. Batmama, and see yourself out. I paid for my daily fix.
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Sharing a bedroom with 50 assholes, sca-rew sobriety and the hoss it came in on. Everybody likes ME better this way, believe me.
Well, lover-ly chatting a decent spell with y'all. Drop a bitch a line and make me feel wanted. Check out "Batty's List", my new personals ad for prisoners while here - maybe you'll find a convict to take home to Mutha!
xoxoxo Bats-A-Matta-U
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