Thursday, Oct. 29

Thursday already? Well, YES. That was a stupid question. Or not: I’ve found that days are smearing together as never before. They’re busier. And I get less done.

But Thursday is still the hell-day on which all duties bear down, and Friday still has its standard release, unchanged through the years. It all comes down to the moment when the piano lesson is over. At that point it’s like a great axe is taken to the rope of duty, and off I go. I only hope I get something done this Friday night; last Friday I did something stupid like watch a movie without doing six other things, and consequently we’ve no updates left but Sears 1934 and 100 Mysteries. No, strike that; I redesigned the main page and the Institute of Official Cheer, but that doesn’t count.

Wife still down with cold; kid got off bus dragging and peaked. I’ve seen more flu and colds this year than ever before, it seems, and I wonder if this has anything to do with the oddly muted Halloween Spirit about in the land. Not that I mind – the month-long build-up has annoyed me for some time. Somewhere around Sept. 21st it becomes obligatory for variety stores to put out bags that show Victorian houses in silhouette against a moon, this being the universal sign for Halloween. As I probably note every year, it’s interesting how a particular style of architecture became associated with ghosts and abandonment once it fell permanently out of style. Every subsequent style of domestic architecture is still with us; even the rare sleek 30s houses are echoed in today’s ascetic modern boxes. But hang some gewgaw woodwork from the eaves, and it’s SPOOK CENTRAL.

Perhaps it’s just me – why yes, that could be a possibility; it may be that my personal observations are not representative of the nation or culture as a whole, unlikely as that seems, I mean, where’s the precedent for that – because my child is less interested in Halloween now. She’s between the tot-time when it’s fun to dress up and get candy and the tween-time you head out with your peers. Two years ago she went as a Pokemon character. This year? The Grim Reaper. They grow up so fast.

At least I recall the halcyon days when we would go to the playground, and I could stand nearby in reasonable proximity. If this story is true - and I am suspicious of almost everything that comes out of the English media, including the actual bust size of the Page 3 girls – then I should number myself among the elect for living here, now. It seems so preposterous, such a risible collage of nanny-state cliches: parents must keep a distance, but the children will be observed by state-sanctioned “play rangers.”

Mayor Dorothy Thornhill argued the council was merely enforcing government policy at the play areas.

‘Sadly, in today’s climate, you can’t have adults walking around unchecked in a children’s playground and the adventure playground is not a meeting place for adults,’ she said.

The amount of neutron-star-dense idiocy in that quote is so substantial it’s remarkable the interviewer wasn’t trapped at its event horizon. At the very least, it suggests Ms. Mayor-type Person has not spent any time at a children’s playground, where adults – aka parents – often meet and exchange social pleasantries while their wee bairns cavort around the brother-primate bars. In fact, social relationships of a minor but satisfying nature often arise from these situations, and adults may see the act of meeting other parents as part of the playground experience. Mind you, this is coming from a society that already puts cameras in so many location the Torchwood crew could probably call up footage of your digestive system worrying over a bolus of curry.

Perhaps it might be left up to parents to monitor the situation, keep an eye out for Ken Shabby and Uncle Ernie and the other lone atoms who might, perhaps, keep a loose orbit around the playground? No; can’t have that; they haven’t been accredited by the state.

Oh, and remember: a particularly pungent abrogation of individual rights cannot be objected to if one’s critics have, at some point inferred support for a greater, if theoretical, infringement on personal rights. Particularly if the critics believe they understand the motivations you are too blind to see.

Back to Frank: installment #4.

Opening lines I have written and distracted:

Now begins the long flogging, the rote exploitation, the extraction of money from the gullible and bored

There’s no point beating a dead horse, but that ought to go double for a man, but

Perhaps the first three movies exhausted the collective imagination

You can see where I’m going with this. The fourth Frankenstein movie is B grade all the way, although audiences may have been buoyed by the early appearance of Lugosi as Ygor. He finds the monster wasn’t killed by the last reel of the previous film – oh, imagine that – and helps him escape. They head off to the Conveniently Located Village, which is full of Villagers who have made the mistake of going outside in the daylight without torches, something that always results in the appearance of the Monster and some head-clouting and/or strangling. But this time the film tries to revive our sympathy for the Monster, as he helps a little girl. Her ball is stuck on the roof, and he goes to get it. Only throws two villagers off the roof in the process.

The scene where the Monster decides to help the little girl shows what potential the movie had – if it had just kept up this style.

As for the rest of it, well . . . no. Hey, Igor, can I keep this waiter? He followed me home and seems fond of me.

For my next act, I will drink a glass of water while my puppet speaks:

Brain transplants are involved, and the cerebellum of Ygor ends up in the Monster’s head. This makes the Monster extra nasty, and he decides to kill everyone by poison gas, watching from a sealed room with evident amusement:

That’s not Karloff; he knew better than to do this one. That’s Lon Chaney Jr., who was also known as the Wolfman. If you’re wondering whether the Monster dies in this one – why, of course! Like every great monster, he dies in every single one of his appearances. Last time he fell in a sulfer pit; this time he goes blind and can’t find his way out of the house. But don’t worry – if there’s anything that’s impervious to the effects of fire, it’s old reused skin that’s been reanimated a few times. He’ll be back.