I'm just not in the holiday spirit

My Halloween enthusiasm is at an all time low. Here it is, the 27th day of Halloween, and I've done almost nothing to celebrate. Sure, it's easy to just say Everyday Is Halloween, and I have, but I usually try to officially begin the season on the day summer dies, which is the day after Labor Day. 

Hey, don't get me wrong. I enjoy 15 or 20 minutes of warm weather and sunshine as much as the next person. 

But what I really enjoy is when the swimming pools are drained and barbecue grills are stowed away for the summer, and the Food Network hosts get dressed as Liza Minelli and start hot-gluing livestock to serving plates to create their holiday table-scapes.

So I've only scattered a dozen or so additional candles around the penthouse, and only covered some of the furniture in black shrouds, and only added a few additional skulls where they were needed, and only eaten one box of Halloween Oreos. Out of the Universal Monsters box set, I've only watched The Invisible Man. I've only watched Monsters Crash The Pajama Party once.

The only Halloween-themed vinyl I've listened to is my copy of Spook Show Spectacular A-Go-Go.

I forgot to hang up my folk art witch, I haven't hung up my wreath with the plastic bloody eyeballs, I haven't purchased any festive holiday gourds, I haven't bought any candy corn, and I only have the one container of green Funfetti Frosting with the candy googly eyes. What if I have some sort of Funfetti-related cake emergency? It wouldn't be the first time.

As you can clearly see, I'm completely unprepared for the holiday and I'm undergoing some sort of crisis. Ok, maybe crisis is a bit strong. It's just Halloween, I'm sure I'm fine.

Ok, so maybe there is one little, teensy, tiny issue, and it almost isn't even worth bothering to mention, and no, it wasn't that time I went to the farmer's market and accidentally purchased $18 worth of grapes, although that was extremely delicious and traumatic. 

AKA, The Grapening

Really, fruit shouldn't be $7 a pound. No one needs that much fruit. Grape jam is about $3 a jar, and it's filled with all kinds of grapes. But no, that's not what I'm getting at, even though getting grifted for grapes really gets my goat. 

What I'm getting at is that here in what should be known as The Worst Year Ever For My Health (and not The Grapening), I was recently diagnosed with Spasmodic Dysphonia. It's fine. It's difficult to speak, but it's fine. 

Seriously, don't listen to that meme up there. In the grand scheme, it could be much worse. My voice is shaky and weird, and I get some odd stares. It's no big deal. I'll get some treatment, and I'll be back to yammering on like I usually do. And I'm in good company with Diane Rehm, Linda Thompson, Mary Lou Lord, and Darryl McDaniels of Run-DMC, who all have it. So in the meantime, I'm going to hang up that folk art witch, hang up my bloody-eyed wreath, and go buy some candy corn.

Even though it's difficult to communicate, and I haven't posted much lately, I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all for reading this dumb little blog that talks about nearly everything but the thing it's supposed to talk about. I appreciate you all. Talk to you all soon. 

https://dysphonia.org

https://www.nidcd.nih.gov/health/spasmodic-dysphonia

The House That Dripped Blood

As usual, I'm fashionably late to the Hammer-Amicus party. As usual, I have several not-especially good or believable reasons which I'm going to explain in lengthy detail. Before I do any of that, I'd like to thank Gill of Realweegiemidget Reviews and Barry at Cinematic Catharsis for inviting me to contribute to the Third Hammer-Amicus Blogathon in spite of my chronic tardiness. As usual, I'm always touched and flattered that they would include me. So on to the review.

The House That Dripped Blood

 

Speaking of houses, it's a cold and snowy day, and I've been trapped in Deathrage Tower with a particularly nasty case of bronchitis. Between breathless bouts of hacking coughs, wheezing, and gasping, I've been online shopping for items I do not need and watching episodes of Country Life Vlog on Youtube.

 

A couple in Azerbaijan cook outdoors, milk cows, harvest herbs and vegetables, and build things. It's fascinating and mystifying. I would love to be the sort of person who is able to exist in daylight in the great outdoors, doing things and enjoying home-brewed beverages, but after about 17 seconds I would be a shriveled, dehydrated husk from sun poisoning and mosquito bites, surrounded by partially completed and abandoned projects, mummified in a Cocteau Twins t-shirt near a handmade brick oven I was never really going to finish building anyway, and you might as well bury me under those bricks because it's now my tomb. 

Yes, I know this is Otzi the Iceman and he died frozen in the Alps so don't @ me. It's still a mood.

Speaking of Otzi's twisted arm, to add injury to insult I was recently diagnosed with Shoulder Impingement Syndrome in my right shoulder, so I haven't been able to lift my arm above my chest or carry anything heavier than a coffee cup for months, and it has been very irksome, especially since it's extremely important to me to be able to lift several cups of coffee every morning. Well, not at the same time, you know what I mean. A couple of weeks ago I received a steroid shot and began physical therapy, and I've regained motion in it, although it's still pretty weak. Anyway, enough about my physical ailments. Back to the review.

The House That Dripped Blood

Speaking of my body atrophying and decaying into dust, I purchased a new T-shirt from Void Merch, and although I don't really need a 3000th t-shirt, this one aptly describes what it's like to live my life right now.  (Who am I kidding, I'm always in the market for the right t-shirt.)

https://voidmerch.threadless.com/designs/my-body-is-a-temple-ancient-and-crumbling/masc/t-shirt/regular

They have tons of great shirts so head on over and buy one, and follow Dread Singles on twitter @hottestsingles. You'd be cool if you did. So thanks for indulging me, and on to the review.

The House That Dripped Blood

Speaking of drippy houses, I've decided to become a high-powered real estate magnate. I purchased an additional property, and I'm running an AirBNB out of it because I guess I don't have enough to do and I like cleaning up after strangers who have been touching all of my possessions. 

 

In all the twists and turns in my career(s) in the past couple of years, I didn't see scrubbing showers, mopping floors, and smudging for negative energies for a living (Ha!) coming (I usually just do that for fun), but look at me hustle. So far, it seems to be just an ordinary property that doesn't drip blood, unfortunately, and doesn't seem to be haunted by busty female vampires but nothing's perfect I guess, and our guests have been satisfied.  Hopefully soon we'll achieve SuperGhost status. 

Did I just forget to take out the garbage?

Anyway, on to the review. For real this time. Or is it?

The House That Dripped Blood

A horror writer comes to an obviously stigmatized property to write a novel about a strangler, and he wears a white cable-knit cardigan and a Pepto-Bismol pink button-down shirt which distracts. He keeps a skull on his desk in an attempt to create a sinister atmosphere, but I have 4 skulls in my kitchen alone, so make of that what you will. 

Someone eats soft boiled eggs in egg cups. Suddenly, the strangler from the novel appears. He glares from a chair, but through a window it's revealed that he's no specter but just a guy in a mask, sort of like what happened in every episode of Scooby-Doo. 

Or is it just a guy in a mask? 

No, it is. 

Then, a bachelor businessman moves into the house because he now has more time to listen to music and garden, wear a red dressing gown, and stand by duck-filled ponds and put one foot on a stump like Captain Morgan. 

Just when you expected a Captain Morgan meme.

The bachelor goes to the town's Museum Of Horror, which is an interesting but unlikely tourist attraction that somehow survives without charging admission. The interior of the museum isn't particularly terrifying, although the visual interest and Dutch angles jumps up several notches during a dream sequence. A dull friend comes for a dull visit. 

This dream sequence contrasts nicely with my evening apparel.

At this point, I'm becoming drowsy. Then a man is scared of his own child, who has a wax figure of her father which she stabs with pins. The figure gets thrown into the fire, and I nod off in front of the TV.

I awake to the final vignette, where a couple moves into the house, and the husband goes down into the crypt-like basement to find Ingrid Pitt and her plunging décolletage rising from her coffin. Surprising almost no one, I fall asleep in spite of all the vampire happenings.

I know, it's inexplicable. I blame all the bathroom scrubbing.

The House That Dripped Blood is a better than average vignette-style horror film. It has its moments, and it drags in places, which is par for the course for this film format. I recommend staying awake while viewing it, particularly when Ingrid Pitt does her thing.

Thanks again to Gill and Barry for inviting me to the Hammer-Amicus Blogathon and putting up with my shenanigans.