Happy Friday the 13th! Now get outta here.
Wishing you a happy Friday 13th might seem strange, but it makes perfect sense to me. You see, my dad (not to be confused with this dead guy) wrote Friday the 13th.
In the late '70s, the old man was making a living doing freelance writing, screenwriting, teaching, workshops, and whatever else he could to feed his wife and two young kids. My parents were bohemian artist types, pseudo-hippies in a redneck blue-collar New England town. Needless to say, we didn't fit in.
But he was plugging away, making enough money to keep us clothed and fed. He hooked up with Sean S. Cunningham, producer of Last House on the Left, in 1977 or so. Together they set about knocking off popular movies of the day. "The Bad News Bears" became "Here Come the Tigers," and "Halloween" became "Friday the 13th."
But then something happened. "Friday the 13th" scared the shit out of people, and they liked it. In fact, they liked it to the tune of about $78 million. (The film only cost about $700,000 to make.) And Pops was famous. But still broke.
"How the hell could that be?!?" you might ask. Well, it's simple really. As a struggling, nonfamous screenwriter, you really don't have any juice. The old man wrote the thing for a lump sum that kept me and my bro in Steak-Ums and Atari games, but it certainly wasn't gonna move us out tha 'hood ta up in the woods. And he didn't have points, or back-end, or any of that Hollywood jive.
No, his real break came when he got the call from One Life to Live. Now I wouldn't think that writng a smash-hit horror movie would qualify you to write soap operas, but luckily the folks at ABC did. Dad started at One Life in '82, and did stints with All My Children, Guiding Light, and Another World over the next 19 years, winning three Daytime Emmys in the process. And today he gets to retire.
Pretty fitting that the cat who gave Friday the 13th all those evil connotations gets to hang up his spikes today, on Friday the 13th. But hey, he's earned it. He put me and my brother through college, and not cheap ones either. And he made sure my momma was livin' good, and they eventually did move ta up in the woods. Now he and Moms are packing up and moving out to the Yay Area to be near the kids and grandkid.
So hats off to you, Victor Miller. And they told you you'd never amount to anything. I guess you showed them.
Some Victor Miller-Related Web Links
» The IMDb page for Victor Miller.
» A great interview with the man. Lots of info about the creation of "Friday" and its characters.
» The script for "Friday the 13th."
» Uber-critic Janet Maslin's less-than-stellar review of the film.
» A good interview, mostly about soap operas and stuff. Shame about the layout.
» Another horror fan interview, but this guy's kind of a tool.
» RealVideo version of the interview the Hartford ABC affiliate did with Mr. Miller. Be sure to listen for the part where the lady asks him "Can I can touch it?" Priceless. ßßß
You know what I haven't had in a while? Big League Chew.
God bless Seth MacFarlane and God bless Family Guy. After a too-long hiatus, Family Guy repremiered last night with an incredible new episode. My only gripe? In the intro, Stewie, the little football-headed infant, used to sing "f'in' cry" in the opening theme, and they seem to have changed it to "laugh and cry." They more than made up for it later on, though, when Stewie exclaimed "I don't need to fucking impress any of you," with the "fuck" part bleeped, of course. Best ... TV show ... ever.
I'm sick of music. That must be it. How else can I explain the fact that I hate every CD I buy? OK, maybe hate's too strong a word, but everything new that I've bought/downloaded/listened to lately has left me flat. With the notable exception of Rival Schools. They fucking rock.
It's not genre-specific, either. I hated the new Whiskeytown, the new Squarepusher, Alkaline Trio, Weezer, Radiohead, White Stripes ... I'm at a loss. And records I want, like the new Hellacopters and the new Backyard Babies aren't even available in North America. The new Jimmy Eat World comes out July 24. If that sucks, I give up.
But it's not just CDs. I'm sick of music and musicians. Case in point: I had an audition on Sunday night. It went really well. I showed up, we "jammed" (not in the hippy sense — we just improvised some shit), and it sounded great. It seemed like they were gonna offer me the gig. Turns out they wanted to play "a few more times" and "write some songs" with me before they made a decision. What?
Lemme get this straight: You want me to show up three, four, five more times for three hours at a time and write songs for a band I might not even join? Ummm ... lemme think ... no. That's ridiculous. Why would I invest all that time and energy on spec? But I'm meeting some more band people tonight. I guess I'll never learn.
I don't usually steal links from Obscure Store, and I know that this story will end up on every other goddamn weblog in the world, but I did want to point out that in addition to being charged with burglary, grave robbing, and drug possession, this guy was also charged with possession of an infernal machine. According to the General Laws of Massachusetts,
The term "infernal machine" ... shall include any device for endangering life or doing unusual damage to property, or both, by fire or, explosion, whether or not contrived to ignite or explode automatically and whether or not disguised so as to appear harmless.
It sounded way cooler before I knew what it was. I pictured some Ghost-Rider-esque, fire-and-brimstone-spitting diabolical contraption. But it was probably something boring, like a bomb.
Did it strike anyone else as ironic that the judge in the case is named Mark Coven? Just wondering. ßßß
7-11: Sweat the Money
Cal Ripken and Bad Vlad Guerrero were the only bright spots in an otherwise routinely tedious All-Star Game. I liked Vladimir Guerrero before, but I like him way more now.
In baseball- and Web-related news, Pac Bell Park execs have no idea what to do with the more than 40,000 Webvan cup holders at the ballyard. Apparently Webvan paid more than a million bucks to get their stupid stickers on those stupid cup holders. Makes you wonder: Maybe they'd still be around if they didn't do stupid shit like that.
Genius time-waster of the day: Disturbing Search Requests. If you have a weblog, you know the crazy shit that shows up in your logs. I, for instance, was a search result for severed women's legs, netflix porn, martina hingis spank, and my personal favorite, rachel campos car crash. You people are sick.
In case you were wondering what to bring the Ataris when they come to your town, the band has thoughtfully provided you with a list of suggestions. I've got a suggestion of my own, though: Howbout a thorough ass-whippin'? Hey, Ataris: You guys suck. Your band sucks, and you suck for presuming that anyone would want to bring you anything and then making a stupid list of stuff for people to bring you. Go buy your own goddamn boxer shorts, DVDs, and smoothies (only natural juice please, nothing with sugar). Losers. ßßß
Matthew Modine and Richie Sexson: separated at birth?
I had an audition with a Roots-esque live hip-hop band on Sunday night. I think it went well.
The Giants will have three starters in the All-Star game tonight. They are 46 and 42 at the break, 5.5 games out of first. Come on, wild card.
If Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within does really well, does that mean we can get rid of actors altogether? God, I hope so.
I can't decide which movie will kick more ass: Batman: Year One or The Hulk. Maybe they can make these comic-book movies with pretend actors. It could happen.
Limp Bizkit sounds like they're on the verge of imploding. Fred Durst may or may not have slept with another member's lady. Hey, Fred: step aside. Your 15 minutes are up.
Buddyhead's message boards rock my world. Add me to your buddy list. ßßß
Still Life with Backpiece
Behold Scott Sylvia's magnum opus: phase 1 of my backpiece. Three-plus hours so far. In case it's unclear, there's a snake wrapped around a winged heart with a banner going across the top of the whole thing. I'm thinking that "Rise Above" in the banner would be pretty sweet (à la Black Flag, but more as a reminder to myself to rise above the petty bullshit), what with the wings and all. But I'm open to suggestions.
The Old English lettering at the bottom is not part of the piece in question. The guy who did that was murdered a couple of months ago. Creepy.
My first ever tattoo (left shoulder, under the wing), which I got 12 years ago at Doc Don Lucas' shop in New Orleans, is getting covered as a part of this piece. It's of Astro Boy. It wasn't any intentional cover-up per se, i.e., I don't absolutely hate it, but we needed the real estate. But I'm not that sorry to see it go, either.
Here are some answers to some questions you might have, about this tattoo in particular, and tattooing in general:
Yes, it hurts like hell. Anyone that tells you different is a liar.
Anything on or near bone hurts worst: shins, knees, elbows, and, God forbid, ribs. I have both my elbows completely tattooed, and that was a transcendent experience. Imagine the most pleasurable sensation you've ever had in your life. Now think of the exact opposite of that. That's what it felt like.
No, I don't know how much longer, either in number of hours or sessions, it will take to finish this piece. My next appointment is July 29, when we (and by we, I mean Scott) will add shading, background stuff, and some color.
The most painful parts of this particular tattoo were the bits right on the spine and the banner and arrows near the armpits. That sucked. A lot.
Yes, everything's sterile.
No, they won't fade to green like the old sailor guys you see. Tattoo pigments, not to mention the tattooers themselves, have improved dramatically since then. When I'm 65, my tattoos should look more or less like they do today.
No, I don't regret any of my tattoos, nor do I foresee a time when I'll want them removed.
I get them because I like them. That's the short answer. I started out getting images of things that were important to me — the Dag Nasty flaming head logo or my traditional "Mom" tattoo. Then I just fell in love with the aesthetic. They're art to me, and I love looking at them.
The long answer to why I get them is a lot longer. I'm sure there's some postmodern psychoanalytical reason about feeling powerless and exercising power over my life, blah blah blah. But the short long answer is that my tattoos function as a kind of idiot filter: If you're going to dismiss me on the the basis of my appearance, it will save us both the time and effort of me getting to know you and realizing you're a bigoted idiot.
And that way, everybody wins. ßßß
Don't miss last week's brilliant insight.
